More Than Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Espada
by sagebrush-soap-opera
Summary: 17: What all goes on during a day in the life of Aaroniero, medical apprentice? When the patients include Grimmjow and Ulquiorra, it can't be pleasant. Is there any hope? Will Aaroniero win any wagers? And was that encyclopedia really a good gift idea?
1. Cough Syrup

Disclaimer: Clearly, I don't own these persons, places, or things. You're reading this on a site devoted to fan fiction, remember?

Mini-Summary: There are no germs in Hueco Mundo, but the human world is different. So when the Espada are sent to the human world on missions, it's only a matter of time before they get sick. And Szayel Aporro makes a mean cough syrup.

* * *

Szayel Aporro gritted his teeth as he stalked down the pristine hallways of Las Noches toward the rough sounds of painful coughing. He was a scientist, dammit, not a doctor. Nevertheless, it seemed he was Aizen's first choice of medic when confronted with an ill Espada. It was something he figured he'd better get used to now that they were making regular trips to the human world, but that didn't make him any happier about having to treat this particular patient.

He rounded the corner, came to a stop outside the door with the number 6, and sighed. It couldn't be Ulquiorra, who'd take the medicine as he took everything else, without a complaint or even so much as a change in expression. And of course it wasn't Nnoitra, who might not trust him but would at least follow Aizen's orders to cooperate. Hell, any of the Espada would be easier patients than this one. But they finished their opponents off in a timely fashion instead of playing around, which prevented them even getting sneezed on in the first place.

A particularly bad set of coughs was followed by silence, and Szayel doubted he'd get a better chance than when the rebel Espada was laying still, trying to catch his breath. A tap on the six swung the door open and he peered into the darkness. Leave it to Grimmjow to pick out one of the only rooms in all of Las Noches that didn't face the moon. He took a step forward, focusing on the darker area that was almost certainly the bed.

"Here," Szayel began, reaching in his robe for the bottled syrup he'd mixed up in the lab a few hours earlier. "I made some medicine for that cough." There was no response, but Szayel's eyes were adjusting to the darkness enough to see that Grimmjow was curled up with his back to the door. When Stark had fallen asleep on a park bench while on reconnaissance and gotten sick in the rain, he'd been so tired and feverish the coughing hadn't even woken him up. Szayel shrugged, feeling a tiny stir of pity for the Sexta Espada if he had contracted the same illness.

He raised his voice a bit, hoping to wake his patient enough to take the medicine without being loud enough to make it hard to fall back asleep. "Grimmjow, here's some—"

"I heard you," he rasped. "Don't need it." Another coughing fit immediately followed, giving his denial something of a pathetic twist.

Szayel's eyebrow rose of its own accord. "Don't be stupid, of course you do. You're sick." Knowing it would be the wrong track to take here, he left off the part about following Aizen's orders and would Grimmjow please not make a fuss for once. If anything, an order from Aizen to cooperate and get well would result in Grimmjow dying to spite them all.

"Then I don't _want_ it," he growled in correction. "Go away."

Szayel rolled his eyes and walked forward, stopping just out of easy reach in case his reluctant patient suddenly turned violent. "Quit being so stubborn, you ass. This will make you better. I'm not out to poison you, you know. It's medicine. It's good for you." That stirring pity was beginning to settle down at Grimmjow's continued obstinacy.

Grimmjow shifted a bit, but still didn't turn to face him. "If it's so good for you, then take it yourself," he muttered. "I'm trying to sleep here, and it's hard enough with the coughing, so would you just leave already?"

"You aren't supposed to take medicine when you aren't sick," Szayel returned with more exasperation than he'd meant to reveal. "If I were sick, I'd be the first one to take this."

There was the muffled sound of shifting fabric as Grimmjow finally sat up and turned around to face him. The movements promptly set him to coughing again, but when the fit had passed, he glared up him from the twisted nest of blankets. "Why would I trust your concoction if you aren't willing to drink it yourself?"

Szayel opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it. At this angle, Grimmjow's eyes caught the light streaming in the open door from the hallway behind him and reflected it at Szayel in an eerie blue-green glow. Sick or not, this was the Sexta Espada, two ranks above him and fully capable of inflicting all sorts of painful damage. Szayel shifted a few feet to the left until the two points of light were gone and he felt more like a doctor than a midnight snack.

He let a hint of sternness into his voice, though he was sure it wouldn't be effective. "Grimmjow, you are sick. It's time you got better, and this 'concoction' as you put it will help you do that. You cough all night, every night, and after a week of it, we're all tired of hearing you."

He scowled. "You know how to solve that one, Pink? You stay somewhere where you can't hear me." After a strangled cough, Grimmjow's glare was transferred from Szayel's face to the bottle he held. "Take your poison and get out."

Szayel took a deep breath and debated the possibilities. He could continue this argument all night and not accomplish anything. He could go back to the lab to transform his medicine into an aerosol form that could be lobbed into the room to dose the fool without his permission. Easiest of all would be simply giving up. Let the idiot cough until his lungs bled for all he cared.

Deciding that he could honestly inform Aizen that he'd tried to no avail, Szayel spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Rather than cart the medicine all the way back to his lab, he set it down beside the door. He was, after all, not a doctor. If his patient wasn't interested in getting better, that wasn't his problem. He'd made the medicine. He'd brought it to his patient. He'd done his part.

"Didn't go well, huh?"

Szayel stopped his march and glowered at Yammy, who was waiting there with the silent Halibel. Both arrancar looked about as exhausted as the rest of them in this wing of Las Noches. "You know what? I'm all for going back there and wrestling it right down his throat." He looked at what could be seen of Halibel's expression and turned to address Yammy alone. "You're big. I bet we could do it if we worked together."

Yammy took a step back and shook his head fearfully. "You ever try forcing medicine on a cat?"

"He's not a cat," Szayel muttered, trying to forget the glowing eyes. "He's an arrancar."

"You've seen him released," the larger Espada insisted. "He's a cat. A sharp, ornery cat with a nasty temper and a superiority complex." He shuddered. "We'd never make it out alive."

Szayel sighed, knowing logic when he saw it, even if it came from Yammy. Still, the Sexta Espada was sick. It wasn't as though he was at full strength or anything. What damage could he do, really? It only took a moment for him to shake these thoughts from his head. "I'll go report my failure to Aizen-sama, then."

"It's a human thing he's sick with, right? Like Stark was?"

Szayel nodded, shocked into silence by Halibel's departure from her self-imposed muteness.

"So wouldn't the humans have something to fix it?" Her eyes betrayed nothing, though her voice held a note of censure that he hadn't just swiped something from a pharmacy in the first place.

Yammy nodded at her. "Hey that's a great idea. And since it won't be one of the freak's inventions, maybe—"

"The 'freak' is standing right here," Szayel coldly informed him.

* * *

Six hours, two stops for directions, eighteen pharmacies, and three minor scraps with alarmed Shinigami later, Szayel and Yammy returned to a very quiet Las Noches bearing several bags of assorted over the counter drugs. The medicine had been hard-won, and for several moments, they were too appreciative of the silence to realize what it meant.

"So, are we going straight to Grimmjow with this, or what?" Yammy inquired, holding up a bag so full of cough suppressants that it threatened to burst at the seams.

Szayel shook his head as they passed a Número who'd squished herself into a tiny alcove and seemed to be praying silently. "Only one bottle will be needed. We'll put the rest in the lab for the time being, and I'll sort them all out later."

Later, of course, he might be sampling some of the headache medicine trying to accomplish that sorting. They'd gathered a variety of medicines designed to combat a myriad of symptoms, since it made more sense to make a single trip to the human world to stock up instead of several trips as arrancar came down sick. He was rather looking forward to some mixing and matching in the coming weeks, but his priority at the moment had to be stopping the incessant coughing that was keeping them all awake. And thinking of incessant coughing…

He strained his ears for the sound, but came up with more silence and a shuffle to one side where another Número was spread out in a doorway trying to be flat and inconspicuous. Szayel frowned. The lower arrancar were timid on the whole, yes, but not to the point of cowering at the passing of Espada. He wondered what had happened during their six-hour jaunt outside Hueco Mundo.

"Yammy." He waited for the other Espada's attention before continuing. "Do you hear anything?"

A pause and a glare. "No. Not even coughing." He slammed his fist against the wall, prompting a tiny squeak from one of Stark's Fracción, who'd been crouching upside down near the ceiling with his hands wrapped around his head. "If this whole trip was for nothing, I'm—"

"Quiet," Szayel cautioned. The arrancar were clearly frightened of something, but short of an irate Espada on the rampage, he couldn't fathom what it would be.

"Why?" Yammy said, not bothering to lower his voice in the slightest.

Szayel raised his eyes to the ceiling and was surprised to see a second arrancar huddled up there. "Okay, clearly something's the matter," he said to her softly. "What is it?"

Wide-eyed, she brought a finger up to her masked lips and tried to shush him, but all that came out was a stuttered hiss.

Shrugging in irritation, Szayel motioned Yammy to follow him and began stalking down the hallways toward the center of Las Noches, where there would be more Espada.

"Your lab's that way," Yammy protested, pointing a finger at a side passage.

"Come on, already," Szayel said. "We're going to figure this out. The medicine can wait."

As they neared the more structurally diverse area of Las Noches, the arrancar grew more creative in their hiding places, and Szayel was sure he missed several of them. He didn't see his fellow Espada, though, and that was worrisome. Las Noches was always quiet, barring sick Espada and invading ryoka, but this was not the clinical calm of before. The silence now held an air of expectation and unease.

He finally saw Stark rounding a corner into the kitchen and hurried to catch up, nearly leaving Yammy behind. "Stark," he called, following the higher-ranked Espada. Where most of Las Noches was a sterile white, the kitchen areas were all sterile stainless steel. This didn't stop Espada from purposely cluttering their kitchen up in an attempt to escape the overbearing neatness that was Las Noches. Mugs and plates were arrayed all across the countertops, pushed aside whenever space was needed, and hand towels and the like—white, of course—were haphazardly stacked on top of the refrigerator instead of hanging from the stainless steel hooks.

The mess was minute in comparison to what he'd seen on various trips to the human world, but it was monumental by Las Noches standards. And in the cleared-off counter space nearest the sink, he saw the bottle he recalled leaving on the floor outside Grimmjow's room. Beside the bottle was a single spoon, clearly waiting to be washed.

"Oh, welcome back, you two," Stark's lazy voice greeted them from the table in the center of the kitchen. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

Szayel turned to ask the other arrancar about the silence, the hiding, and the bottle of cough medicine, but his questions died on his lips as he caught a glimpse of Stark's right hand. The first two digits were taped to a splint, and the entire hand was wrapped in gauze that had started to bloom faint tinges of pink in a semi-circular pattern. Stark was judiciously applying a bag of half-melted ice to the injury and looking for all the world like there was nothing out of place about that.

"What, um," Szayel began. "Are you all right?"

Stark looked up from his hand and shrugged. "Sure. I hope you don't mind, Szayel, but I figured with all the coughing it was time for some more medicine. It sounded like he was coughing up a whole lung in there."

Szayel was flabbergasted. "Y-you gave him the medicine?" he asked, knowing the question was stupid.

"Your label said a spoonful would do it," Stark said, nodding back toward the bottle by the sink. "But as I said, he was coughing a _lot_, so I gave him two. Was that all right?"

His eyes locking onto the steadily reddening bandage and broken fingers, Szayel said the first and only thing floating around his head. "You got him to take the medicine?" The task had not been easy, if Stark's injury was any indication.

Stark blinked at him, looking slightly concerned. "All he needed was a little persuasion."

Szayel tried to wrap his mind around the notion that the Sexta Espada, widely known to be the most difficult and stubborn of them all, had taken his medicine like a good boy… For Stark to have sustained this injury, Grimmjow must be in much worse shape, since he wouldn't have backed down without a damn good fight. Szayel wondered what other medical attention he'd be required to give now.

"Hang on a bit, Stark," Yammy said incredulously. "You're telling us that you just bullied _Grimmjow_ into taking medicine he didn't want to take?"

Stark shrugged and rearranged the wilted ice bag. "Oh, it was easy, no bullying required. I just told him you can't win at hide and seek if you're giving your hiding place away by coughing. He came right around after I described the game."

"Hide..." Szayel blinked, imagining with a sense of foreboding the ramifications of a sick Espada lurking in Las Noches trying to avoid detection. Especially one who took contests of skill as seriously as Grimmjow did. Fool would probably starve to death before allowing someone to find him.

"...and seek?" Yammy finished faintly. Stark had clearly been spending too much of his reconnaissance time at the community park.

Stark gave them a lazy nod. "I couldn't seem to get the rules across, though, so it ended up being less 'hide and seek' and more 'stalk and pounce.' Still," he continued, oblivious to their horrified expressions, "it was fun for a while. The game ended about two hours ago when he bit me." He waved his hand in front of him, displaying the splinted fingers and bloody bandages as proof.

"Bit you," Szayel repeated numbly, staring at the reddish semi-circle and broken fingers, and trying to coax his brain into supplying the missing piece of this picture. An Espada had gone into hiding and the rest of the arrancar seemed to be following suit, but who was doing the seeking? Stark clearly thought the game was over, but… the game had been changed to 'stalk and pounce,' which was unarguably more Grimmjow's style, and a very good reason for all the arrancar to be cowering in fear.

"I doubt it was personal," Stark continued. "It said on your label that people might get excitable after taking a dose, so I should have expected it. I just thought he'd be real energetic, so I suggested the game thinking it'd help him get all that energy out." Stark looked down at his hand. "Man, that fucker bites hard in his released form."

"Released…" Szayel began. It clicked then, as he mentally went over Stark's description of events. Szayel felt his stomach twist and resisted the urge to gnaw on his lower lip as he confirmed it. "Wait, Stark. _Two_ spoonfuls?"

"Yeah," he yawned as he set the depleted ice bag in the sink. He turned toward the refrigerator to retrieve more ice. "I didn't think it would be a—"

He was cut off by a flash of blue and white that streaked down from above the refrigerator and landed on his shoulders with a predatory growl, raking its hind legs down Stark's back and trying to trip him with its tail.

"Ow!" Stark shrieked, flailing at his assailant with both hands as he fell to the floor with an audible thump. "Shit, Grimmjow, quit _doing_ this!" He flipped them over and attempted to pin the grinning maniac's arms to the ground, but the broken fingers on his right hand weren't up to the task. Grimmjow slipped free immediately, and lunged up at Stark, tail whipping back and forth and teeth bared in a snarl.

Now pinned himself, Stark futilely thrashed about, trying to reach his zanpakutō and simultaneously keep Grimmjow from his throat. "Get off me, dammit! We're not playing anymore!" He let loose an anguished yowl as teeth snapped down on a corner of his mask just barely missing his jugular, and managed a blow that sent Grimmjow flying at the refrigerator hard enough to dent the door. "That _hurt_, you freak!"

Grimmjow bounded up from the floor with a feral grin. "You're it," he hissed gleefully at the downed Espada before vanishing out the kitchen door.

Silence reigned for several minutes.

With a groan, Stark held his left hand to his mask and rubbed one of the chipped teeth where he'd been bitten this time. "Would one of you put some new ice in the bag for me? I'm going to rest here a bit before getting up, okay?"

Szayel looked at the top of the refrigerator, where the towels were barely disturbed. "How'd he get in here?" he muttered to Yammy. "I didn't see him, did you see him?"

"No, I didn't see him," Yammy whispered, staring wide-eyed around the room as though he thought the tea mugs harbored demons.

"Shit."

"Um, ice _please_?" Stark asked softly. "And maybe some antiseptic. I think he broke the skin again."

Szayel shared a look with Yammy, and they both looked down at Stark, whose uniform lay in ribbons about his bruised self. There was no doubt what would happen to either of them if they were to be "tagged" in this game. As one of the top three Espada, Stark was nearly invulnerable. The same attack would not end as prettily if directed at them, even if they managed to release before it reached them.

Letting out a ragged breath, Szayel stepped over Stark to get ice from the freezer. Part of him wished he knew when Grimmjow had taken the medicine, but the rest of him knew it hardly mattered. He'd made the stuff to last, and a double dose was clearly enough to send the already aggressive Sexta Espada into overdrive. Despite the danger that stalked the hallways, he knew he would have to explain himself to Aizen after he tended Stark's injuries. Imagining Aizen's reaction as he filled the bag with ice, Szayel felt a twinge of despair.

"Your label calls that 'excitable?'" Yammy finally managed.

Szayel set the ice down on Stark's neck and mask as gently as he could before looking up at Yammy. "I think the formula needs tweaking."

* * *

Notes: Yea! I think I finally managed to write something somewhat non-angsty.


	2. Shopping

Disclaimer: Clearly, I don't own these persons, places, or things. You're reading this on a site devoted to fan fiction, remember?

Mini-Summary: Las Noches is well stocked, but there are some things that just can't be found there, including certain "human products" that Orihime claims she can't live without. With a sick Grimmjow on one hand and a shopping list in the other, what's an Octava Espada to do?

* * *

Bringing up the rear of the progression, Szayel looked ahead of him in the loose formation of Espada making their way toward the meeting room, keeping an eye out for blue hair. Nothing. He frowned. This was not a good thing, and Szayel almost turned around to fetch his nominal patient. Even sick Espada had to be at meetings. Aizen had not been pleased with him when he'd given his report after the 'hide and seek' incident, and Szayel had been warned to keep a closer eye on Grimmjow until he was fully recovered, rebellious or no.

Szayel hadn't seen the Sexta Espada since. He'd left the human-made medicine on a small table in Grimmjow's room along with an explanatory note two days ago, but it seemed Grimmjow was either sulking somewhere or taking the game too seriously... still.

As he filed into the room, he wished he'd been a bit faster and managed a spot nearer the middle of the group. Being safely unmemorable in the middle was the way to go, at least until Aizen's disapproval cooled and he went back to being the scientist/medic Espada instead of the Espada who had royally fucked up his patient. As he slid into his seat, he noticed Grimmjow already slumped forward at the table with his head buried in his arms.

Szayel let out a teeny sigh of relief that he wouldn't have Grimmjow's absence from a meeting added to the list of crap he was somehow responsible for. It was enough that he'd inadvertently caused mental trauma in the lower ranks. He didn't need more blame on his plate.

The gathered Espada only waited a minute or two before Aizen arrived, flanked as usual by his two stolen captains. He made his way to the table and sat, sweeping their faces with his eyes. Szayel barely managed to avoid a wince when Aizen paused on him, and was temporarily relieved when those eyes settled on Grimmjow instead.

"I'm pleased you could make it, Grimmjow," Aizen said by way of greeting. There was no response.

Szayel closed his eyes and silently begged someone to kick his patient under the table. Of all the Espada whose actions he could be responsible for, Grimmjow was probably the worst. Szayel could almost feel his number being burned off and given to another arrancar. "It-it's probably the medicine, Aizen-s-sama," he stammered. He didn't want to be Privaron, and that third digit felt closer than he was comfortable with.

Aizen continued to observe the slumbering Espada with something akin to amusement. "We'll begin, regardless." He motioned to his left, and Ulquiorra cleared his throat.

"It has come to my attention, Aizen-sama," the Cuarta Espada began in his typically reserved demeanor, "that the woman, Inoue Orihime, will require certain ... human products in addition to her food."

"Human products?" Nnoitra sneered. "What exactly are those supposed to be?"

Ulquiorra blinked at the interruption, but otherwise did not respond. "She has made a list of the items she would like purchased on her behalf." He produced a folded piece of lavender paper from his sash and laid it in front of Aizen before settling back in his seat.

Aizen plucked up the paper and unfolded it, scanning the list blankly. "And your--"

He was interrupted by soft, wet coughing to his right, and for a moment, everyone's attention was on Grimmjow, whose shoulders shook faintly with each cough. The ill Espada choked on a few indrawn breaths, but eventually settled down into a more regular, if thready and shallow, breathing pattern.

After a moment of silence, Aizen continued as though nothing had happened. "And your recommendation is?" he asked Ulquiorra.

Lifting impassive eyes from the still-sleeping Espada across from him, Ulquiorra answered. "I am not familiar with any of these items, Aizen-sama." He bowed his head regretfully. "It has been some time since I've gone to the human world, and I never had cause to enter a market."

Szayel stifled a groan. The last Espada--maybe the _only_ Espada--who _had_ been to a market was himself. Yammy had spent the time outside holding shopping bags and trying not to scare passersby. Whatever these "human products" were, he was sure he'd be the one who had to hunt them down. Wasn't it enough that he was supposed to keep tabs on Grimmjow? Now he'd have to go traipsing through a store in search of who knew what.

Aizen nodded, and set the paper down. "Szayel will fetch them later, and we will discuss whether they are indeed necessary. Stark?" he asked, continuing around the table.

"Well, speaking of the lady, Aizen-sama... I was wondering whether I could have permission to get my hand fixed." Stark idly rubbed at a spot on his mask. "Maybe my mask, too?"

"I was not aware that your mask had sustained lasting damage, Stark," Aizen commented above the muffled snickers from other Espada.

Stark shrugged and dropped his hand back into his lap, leveling a look at the top of Grimmjow's head that was far too laid back to be a true glare, but which nevertheless conveyed resentment. "He bites hard. Chipped a tooth, even," he insisted, pointing at the damaged area of his mask where, indeed, a tooth was visibly chipped. "I'm lucky he didn't go for a kill with that first bite or my temples would have been caved in."

Aizen merely continued to look at him.

"In my defense, I was preoccupied getting ice for my hand, sir," he mumbled. "And he _does_ blend in, even with the blue hair. Yammy and Szayel didn't see him either."

"Perhaps more of your time in the human world should be spent on useful pursuits, and less on learning the intricate rules of 'hide and seek,'" Aizen murmured in response. "It is part of your punishment that your injuries heal naturally in time and not via interference from our dear prisoner. Do you have anything else to bring to my attention?"

Stark sighed, and shook his head.

"Very well. Nnoitra?"

"Why does Ulquiorra get to watch pet-sama? I'd do just as good a job, and from what I've seen, she's very lonely. My conversation skills are vastly superior to--"

"No." Aizen effectively silenced him by shifting his gaze to Halibel, who shook her head, indicating that she had nothing to say.

The rest of the Espada, excluding the sleeping Grimmjow, followed suit, and Szayel was more than content doing likewise, but Aizen's raised eyebrow silently informed him that it was in his best interest to bring something to the table.

"Um, patient report, then," he said. Szayel looked at Grimmjow, who had slept more or less soundly through the meeting to that point. Hopefully the Sexta Espada wouldn't wake up and contradict his story. "The Espada housed in the Eastern wing of Las Noches are sleeping better now that the coughing is mostly kept in check. Grimmjow's still reacting strongly to medicines, but I've kept him away from anything with a side effect we can't deal with."

Aizen shifted his attention to his immediate right. "And the current medication is...?"

Szayel smiled, finally getting into territory where he was on firmer footing. He'd only left two drugs in that room, and one of them had clearly said it was a non-drowsy formula. There was no effort at all in determining which of those two the Sexta Espada had taken. "One of the human drugs, Aizen-sama. Nyquil, which is supposed to help patients sleep through their illnesses while their bodies recover." He paused, looking at the mop of blue hair that still hadn't been raised off the table. "It seems to be working quite well, sir."

Aizen said nothing, but lifted a hand to tap Grimmjow firmly on the shoulder. The Espada stirred with a small groan, but didn't wake.

"Maybe poke him with a stick," Nnoitra suggested.

Ignoring the comment, Aizen placed his palm on Grimmjow's forehead with a frown.

"Cold," Grimmjow complained, flinching back into a semi-upright position to avoid the hand. He rubbed at his eyes blearily and cleared his throat.

"Good morning, Grimmjow," Aizen greeted him. "And welcome to the meeting."

Dull blue eyes blinked at that, and Grimmjow's face scrunched up in tired confusion. "Meeting?" he managed before doubling over in a coughing fit.

Raucous laughter sounded from the other end of the table, where Nnoitra clutched at his side with one hand and jabbed at Stark with the other. "Dumb fuck doesn't even know where he is," he wheezed. "That's some good shit, Pink. Some damn good shit. What'd you call it? Something about quilts?"

Feeling distinctly less comfortable now, Szayel corrected him. "Nyquil, actually."

"Nnoitra." Aizen's voice held more than a note of warning, and the Quinta Espada's laughter died almost immediately. Aizen waited until Grimmjow had finished coughing and was leaning back in his chair weakly, struggling for breath. He picked up the spoon from his tea and looked pointedly at Grimmjow. "Open your mouth and say 'ah,'" he commanded.

"Wha?" Grimmjow looked at him as if he'd expressed a desire for a more vibrant color scheme in Las Noches.

Aizen shook his head. "No, '_ah_,'" he corrected.

"Yeah, I got that, dammit," the Sexta Espada rasped. "What I don't got is a fucking clue," he sucked in a shallow breath, "what you're talking about."

Szayel cringed at his patient's breathing and his tone, and hoped he would not be held accountable for either. Really, however slowly, the medicine _was_ working, and it said nothing about irritability, so this was just Grimmjow's own natural stubborn impertinence showing through. Surely Aizen realized there was nothing he could do about that.

"I am going to examine the back of your throat." Aizen waved the spoon at him. "So open your mouth."

To Szayel's surprise, and probably the surprise of everyone else at the meeting, Aizen included, Grimmjow wordlessly complied. Not one to waste an opportunity, Aizen grabbed the Espada by the chin and inserted the spoon, using it as a tongue depressor as he peered thoughtfully into Grimmjow's mouth. He used his handhold on Grimmjow's chin to tilt his head until he found the optimal angle.

"Hmm. Szayel," he began, releasing Grimmjow as he removed the spoon and set it on the table. "In addition to gathering the items on Orihime's list, you will take Grimmjow to a human doctor."

Szayel felt the floor drop out from beneath him, and struggled to hold back the frustrated tears threatening to make an appearance. He mentally cursed all humans and their thrice-damned illnesses to whatever corner of Hell was the least comfortable. "Yes sir, Aizen-sama."

* * *

"Now listen, Grimmjow," Szayel repeated for the third time. "Your name is Jack Grimm. Got it?" He waited for Grimmjow to nod. "You describe your symptoms when asked, you do as they tell you, and you don't say anything about Aizen or arrancar or Espada."

Szayel sighed, and looked from the glass doors of the walk-in clinic back to his fellow Espada, who leaned against a telephone pole catching his breath. It was downright bizarre to see Grimmjow without his jawbone mask, but it was really pointless to make a gigai that couldn't pass for human. He adjusted his glasses with a finger and gave their clothing a once over to make sure they conformed to the normal humans on the sidewalk. He was fine, himself, and aside from the flushed skin from his fever, Grimmjow also fit right in. He wasn't even the only one with blue hair, which was a bit odd.

"Grimm," he said, snapping his fingers for attention. "Where are you from?"

Grimmjow attempted a glare, but couldn't seem to put much energy behind it. "Australia. And you're my brother Cecil. You think I'm too stupid to remember these things?"

Szayel shook his head, trying to ignore the harsh coughing. "Just too sick, maybe." He looked at his watch. They had five hours to accomplish their tasks and meet Ulquiorra at the park. "Okay. Let's get this done."

He pushed the doors open and waited for Grimmjow to walk ahead of him to the sign in counter, intending to follow right behind. Before he could do so, however, a plump woman and three small children pushed past him, as well as an elderly man with a walker. Szayel glanced over their heads to the reception desk, where Grimmjow was being handed paperwork. As soon as he was able, Szayel joined him there in time to hear them wrangling over names.

"Look, woman," Grimmjow growled. "Jack Grimm, Grimm Jack, I don't care, all right? Fuck, just do whatever the hell you do in Japan." He broke off in a coughing fit.

Szayel snatched the pen from Grimmjow's fingers with a strained smile, and none too gently elbowed his patient to the side. "So sorry, miss. My brother is sick, and not thinking clearly. We'll just take this and sit down to complete it, if that's all right?"

After practically shoving his "brother" into a chair in the corner, Szayel settled in with the clipboard full of paperwork. "Real smooth, Jack-o," he muttered. "Aussies are unfailingly polite, from what I've heard. You could fake it."

"What does it matter? It's not even my real name, anyway." Grimmjow folded his arms gingerly over his chest. "And I thought you said we were from Australia."

Szayel deliberated for a second, and then decided it wasn't worth the lesson in geography and popular culture. Thankfully, it was an easy task to go down the list of illnesses and check the "no" column to each and every one. He resisted the temptation to check "yes" for "chronic headaches," figuring that was for headaches Grimmjow had suffered, and not headaches he'd caused. A peek at the note card he'd brought with him supplied the fake address, phone numbers, and other medical data needed to complete the paperwork, and then it was a matter of waiting.

...waiting in a room that was, statistically speaking, filled with sick people. One of the three children he'd had to hold the door open for had vomited no fewer than three times since they'd arrived. Another of them was coughing. Everyone else in the room was sniffling, sneezing, blowing their noses or just looking miserable in silence like the old man. He found himself glad they were on the opposite side of the room, even though the Espada next to him was probably sicker than the rest combined.

"Hey, Szayel," Grimmjow muttered under his breath. "Is it cold in here, or what?"

"Not in the slightest, _Jack_," he said.

"Fine. Cecil, or whatever stupid name you came up with," Grimmjow conceded before succumbing to a series of wracking coughs. "How can you not be cold in here? It's fucking freezing."

Szayel frowned, and put a hand to Grimmjow's cheek. "That's the fever talking. Try to ignore it." Szayel himself closed his eyes and resolved to ignore _everything_, including the fever-ridden Espada shivering next to him.

It wasn't a full half hour before Szayel felt a hot weight against his side, and looked over to see Grimmjow curled up in the chair with his head drooping to one side. Szayel sighed and didn't move when Grimmjow shifted to rest his head on the slighter Espada's shoulder. This, it seemed, was the price of being the only Espada who could be deemed a medic in any capacity.

He considered his chances of getting a double prescription for whatever Grimmjow had, since it was seeming more and more probable that he'd come down with it himself within the next week. It was unlikely they'd agree to that request, he concluded. But there _was_ a good chance he could replicate the drug once they had it, and simply produce enough for two or three or however many arrancar got sick.

So this was a "walk-in clinic." From the name, he'd assumed it meant something like fast service, but apparently, it just meant anyone could walk in. Already the place housed five more humans than it had when he'd turned in Grimmjow's paperwork. With yet another sigh, he closed his eyes again and continued waiting.

* * *

"Pneumonia," Szayel muttered, staring at the scribbles on the paper the doctor had handed them. When had humans come up with that one? "Figures it would be something I've never heard of. And this," he waved the paper, "I can see a 'C' clearly, and I think there's a "t" in there towards the middle." He squinted, removed the glasses his gigai had to wear, and squinted some more. "How can anyone read this?"

Finally, the window in front of him opened, and a perky young woman smiled at him. "What can I do for you, sir?" she chirped.

Szayel reluctantly handed her the paper, hoping he had witnessed this task of "filling prescriptions" correctly during his last visit. "I need this as soon as possible," he said, taking a backward glance over his shoulder to make sure his charge wasn't getting into trouble in the aisle devoted to something called "contacts."

"Patient name?"

"Uh, Jack Grimm," he answered.

"Not a problem," she replied. "I'll call your name when it's filled."

The window shut before he could correct her assumption. Shrugging, he turned to find Grimmjow studying a box with a slightly horrified expression. "What's that?" he asked.

Grimmjow held it out for him to see. "It's soap. You're supposed to soak these plastic discs in it and then shove them in your eyes. Like soap in your eyes isn't painful enough, they invented this shit to make it worse."

While he knew humans did some weird things, that didn't sound right to Szayel, and he took the box from Grimmjow to read carefully. In a minute, he'd spotted the problem. "Actually, those discs are to help you see, and this is for washing them before sticking them on."

"And how is that any better?"

Szayel blinked. "I'm not sure. But it isn't on this list, so put it back." He dug the list in question out of his pocket and studied it. The handwriting was neat, if a bit curlier than he was used to, and he could make out each and every item. This did not, however, help him determine what each item represented. Unfortunately, the more specific items were less intelligible than the others. Conditioner made sense to him. Seaweed mask, however…

"Hey Pink," Grimmjow groused. "You going to let me see that, or what?"

"You want to help?" Szayel eyed his fellow Espada warily. This made even less sense to him than 'grape dubble bubble' toward the bottom of the list.

Grimmjow shrugged. "It'll get me out of here faster, won't it?" He snatched the list from Szayel's fingers and studied it, his brow growing steadily more scrunched up as he neared the bottom of the list. "What the hell is 'body butter?'"

Szayel grabbed the list back with a scowl. "I don't know. But since you want to help, I'll put you in charge of shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant. They're all in one aisle, so you won't be wandering around."

"What's she need deodorant for? She doesn't smell half bad."

It took him a second to process the comment, but when he reached the end of the aisle, Szayel stopped and turned so suddenly that Grimmjow plowed into him. "She doesn't smell half bad?" he repeated incredulously as Grimmjow recovered. What the hell kind of comment was that?

Grimmjow blinked at him, his eyes still brightly feverish but his expression and stance taking on a more defensive quality. "I mean, she's got a kind of sunflower seed and honey thing going on, but it doesn't _stink_."

Of its own volition, Szayel's left eyebrow rose up above the rim of his gigai's glasses. This was not the sort of awareness he'd come to expect from the Sexta Espada, and he didn't want to imagine the sort of lurking one would have to do to smell their prisoner through that door.

"What? You can't smell that?" Grimmjow returned his earlier incredulous look with disbelief of his own. "Walking down that hallway's like walking through a field of fucking granola bars."

Szayel's right eyebrow joined his left. "I would find this more amusing if I didn't think you were serious, Grimmjow." A small part of him wondered whether Aizen would let him conduct studies on arrancar sensory perceptions, starting with Grimmjow. The larger part of him shrugged this off as a distraction, and he turned the corner to find the hair care and basic toiletry aisle.

He watched as Grimmjow wrinkled his nose at the bottles, but dutifully squatted down to start reading labels. That smaller part of him refused to let go, and was starting to tinker with variables and possibilities for control groups. "Out of curiosity," he started.

"No. I'm not telling you what you smell like. Go find those tambourines or batons or whatever they were called."

"Tampons," Szayel corrected, though he knew it was pointless to bother. "Just stay put, all right? I'll come get you when everything else is ready, so you can rest a while before we walk to the park."

Leaving Grimmjow behind, he looked around for an assistant of some sort. It was equally pointless to comb the market for these other items, especially ones like the body butter, which could be in any number of sections. For all he knew, it was in the produce aisle right by butter beans or in the dairy aisle behind the yogurt.

It took him only fifty dollars to bribe a clerk into collecting the items he indicated, and Szayel arranged to meet back with the clerk at the pharmacy only moments before the intercom announced that "Jack-san's" prescription was ready.

"Please go to the next window to hear about directions for use and possible side effects, sir," a new, but every bit as cheerful clerk announced when he arrived.

Shrugging, Szayel walked the three steps to his right and stood by until an elderly man in a white coat approached the window carrying a white paper bag. After hearing the more common side effects, he began to tune the man out, dismissing the side effects as either deserved or only marginally bothersome.

Headaches, Grimmjow would just have to deal with. He'd caused enough of them lately that a little payback was only fitting. Dizziness and motion sickness would at least keep the Sexta Espada in bed and docile, which was more than Szayel could say for his own medicine. The changes to senses of taste and smell were more intriguing than worrying, and Szayel made a mental note to watch for these things as they might lead to a new area of research. He didn't much care how dry Grimmjow's mouth got while taking this drug, and any anxiety the Espada felt was well deserved as far as Szayel was concerned.

And on, and on. It was starting to seem like the medicine itself would cause more problems than the pneumonia had in the first place. Maybe Stark had it right, and their prisoner could just heal the both of them so things could return to what passed for normal in Las Noches. Given what she'd healed before, during, and after ryoka incident, it wouldn't…

"Wait a minute," Szayel interrupted as something the pharmacist said caught his attention. "Right after nightmares, what was that?"

The man blinked at him, and glanced down at his note card. "Hallucinations."

* * *

Yes, there actually is a drug with all those lovely side effects and many more, and the letters Szayel can make out are correct. The metal taste in your mouth truly stays put the whole time you take it. Bleck!


	3. Plunder

As usual, I don't own any of these people, places, or ... well, I do actually own some of the things in here, but you know what I mean. This is a site devoted to fan fiction, so obviously, please don't get all lawsuit happy.

Mini-summary: On returning from the human world laden with the "human products" Orihime requested, what is left for the Espada to do but divide the plunder? And how exactly can Szayel Aporro's life get _any _worse?

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Szayel and Grimmjow staggered into the park grounds, the former loaded down with more plastic shopping bags than any one person should be physically able to carry and the latter clutching at his chest as he struggled to simultaneously cough and gasp for air. 

"Park bench," Szayel grunted, practically shoving his patient onto the wood as he brushed past him to sit on the far side of the bench. He let the bags balanced in his arms topple to the grass and then held his arms out straight so the handles of over a dozen more bags could slide down to follow. Curse that clerk who wouldn't let them take the cart with them.

His arm muscles pinging from the released weight, Szayel turned to inspect the gigai-wearing arrancar next to him. Grimmjow's breathing was, if possible, worse than before, and the flush on his cheeks indicated that the fever wasn't dying down at all. Szayel wondered briefly if it wouldn't have been better to leave Grimmjow in the park to rest instead of dragging him to the market to get that prescription filled. The short rest in the toiletry aisle had clearly not prepared him for the walk through town and the uphill push to their rendezvous point.

"I trust your day was well spent?"

Szayel turned to watch Ulquiorra approach their bench, his hands deep in his hakama and an expression on his face that actually bordered on impatience. The display was somewhat eerie, but not enough to distract him from the coiled rope the Cuarta Espada wore over a shoulder.

"I'm tired," Grimmjow muttered irritably, sucking in what air he could to fuel the rest of his sentence, which was nevertheless heavily punctuated by indrawn breaths. "And I hurt all over, and I can't breathe, and it's so fucking hot, that I'm freezing my ass off and I, just want to die. How was _your_ day?" he spat.

Though Szayel was impressed that Grimmjow was still capable of stringing so many words together with his lungs this messed up, Ulquiorra didn't seem to care. Grimmjow's stuttering response was met with the normal gloomy stare and a cool "You are nearly an hour late."

Grimmjow flipped his middle finger in the air and twirled it around in a circle to indicate his empathy. "Oh poor baby had sit in the park and wait for us." His lung capacity apparently exhausted by the talking, he hunched over a set of coughs that nearly pitched him forward off the bench. "Spare me the sob story," he gasped, hugging his ribs as if they were trying to escape.

Szayel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The day these two learned to get along would be the day the sky over Hueco Mundo cracked open and the sands were flooded in a deluge of fresh, clean water. Until then, he tried to recall a sense of calm he hadn't felt for weeks. "I'm sorry, Ulquiorra. I misjudged the waiting time, both in the clinic and at the market. Thank you for staying here."

Wordlessly, Ulquiorra unslung the rope and ran one end through the handles of each shopping bag, binding them into a single, bristling bundle which he then tossed over his shoulder. He turned his back on them and snapped open the garganta. "I assume there is no need to remain here any longer?"

Szayel shook his head, too tired to smile at the sight of the slight Ulquiorra engulfed by bag upon bag of what had turned out to be mostly beauty products. He got up, motioned for Grimmjow to follow, and then grabbed the Espada by an arm and pulled him from the bench when there was no response.

"I'm coming already," Grimmjow complained. "You don't need to get grabby."

The garganta slammed shut behind them, and Ulquiorra led the way back to Las Noches, trailed by Grimmjow, who was exhausted enough not to object to Szayel's supporting arm. Approximately halfway there, Ulquiorra looked around the bags and commented that Szayel might be better off simply carrying his patient, at which point Grimmjow predictably told him to fuck off.

Szayel held his tongue instead of mentioning that there was no way he'd be able to carry Grimmjow in the gigai. Already he was feeling that empty gnawing sensation in his gut, and walking with those bags had been about the limit of his gigai's strength. He looked over at Grimmjow, who was devoting his whole concentration to putting one foot in front of another and stubbornly holding in what would almost certainly be a spectacular coughing fit once it finally won out. Considering his own healthy gigai's growing hunger and exhaustion, Szayel had no idea how Grimmjow was still going in a gigai every bit as sick as he was.

He made a mental note to work on the ongoing gigai project when they got back and things were more settled. What they currently had worked, but there had to be a simpler way in and out of the things, a way that would allow them to quickly exit when the need arose instead of relying on a highly detectable shot of concentrated hollow reiatsu to eject them.

They'd just barely arrived in Las Noches before one of Aizen's hollow dragonflies flitted in to announce the meeting that had been in progress for the last fifteen minutes and at which their attendance was expected.

"Shit," Szayel muttered, watching the hollow insect fly off down the pristine corridors.

Ulquiorra simply reached into the pockets of his hakama and withdrew two of the egg-sized capsules Szayel had designed to release arrancar from their gigais. He handed one to Szayel, then glanced at Grimmjow, who had finally lost the battle against his cough. The second capsule joined the first in Szayel's hand. "I'll relate to Aizen-sama that you are on your way."

Szayel watched the shorter Espada's retreating figure for a moment before sitting down against the wall by Grimmjow. He unscrewed the top of both capsules and handed one to Grimmjow as soon as the coughs turned to desperate gasps for air. "Bottoms up."

They downed the liquid in unison, identical grimaces twisting their mouths at the taste. Yes, Szayel thought again, there simply had to be a better way than this. He levered himself up, leaving the gigai to crumble into dusty fragments in his wake, and reached down to help Grimmjow up.

"Feel better out of the gigai?" he asked.

Grimmjow shook dust from his jacket and glared. "How would I know? Crap is crap, Pink."

Shrugging at the logic of the statement, Szayel made his way toward the meeting room, setting a pace slow enough for his patient to keep up without rest stops.

* * *

"Welcome to the meeting, Szayel, Grimmjow." 

Szayel let the door shut behind him and tried to determine whether there was a note of censure in Aizen's voice. As he sat down, he decided with a touch of surprise that Ulquiorra had covered for their delay, and that Aizen was indeed simply welcoming them to the meeting. After this last week, it was an odd feeling to not be in some sort of trouble.

Spread along the table amid the ten steaming tea mugs were the items he'd purchased at the market, many of them in little piles. Looking at piles scattered about, he was amazed he'd been able to carry them all through Karakura to the park, and more amazed that they'd fit in the bags in the first place.

"I still say it's a shame Luppi isn't here to go through all this," Nnoitra muttered as he inspected a neon pink loofa. "Girly bastard would have loved this shit."

"You have no idea," Grimmjow muttered as he sank into his seat.

Nnoitra looked up at him. "What was that?"

Grimmjow glowered at him. "Nothing."

Ignoring Grimmjow's glare, he exchanged the loofa for a package containing a pink, T-shaped stick and several bars of ridged metal. "Ha!" Nnoitra tossed the package over Stark's head at Ulquiorra. "Quattro for the Cuarta, huh?" He laughed, showing the majority of his teeth. "Think she's trying to say something?"

Stark snatched the pink package up off the table and read the back before placing it back in front of Nnoitra. "A razor made especially for women? You should have passed this to your left, Nnoitra."

"Or kept it for himself." Having said her piece, Halibel continued to sort the items in front of her into two piles, while Nnoitra's grin turned into an outraged glare.

At a loss, Szayel looked down the table for direction. There was plenty of bickering at the table before meetings started, but Aizen typically kept a much more controlled environment once the meetings actually began. His bewildered gaze met Ulquiorra's long suffering one, and he realized that Aizen was ignoring them while he read the map-sized information sheet that accompanied the medicine Grimmjow would be taking, keeping the creased paper tilted away from the curious Sexta Espada.

"Szayel," their leader murmured without looking up. "We'll need to talk about this once the others have reported."

"Yes, Aizen-sama," he replied. "There are some parts near the end that concern me."

Aizen finally looked up, and carefully pushed the information sheet to his left, where Ulquiorra set his tea down and began to painstakingly refold it. He turned his eyes toward the piles Halibel had made. "Your conclusions?"

She placed one last item in a pile before speaking. "It would be difficult to hurt oneself with any of these items, Aizen-sama, so I do not believe self-harm is something we should be worried with where the woman prisoner is concerned. However, I see no necessity in many of these items."

Szayel wondered at the increasingly odd dynamics of this meeting, where Aizen allowed verbal sniping and Halibel spoke in strings of more than a dozen words. Grimmjow, he knew, was sick. But that alone should not have prompted so great a change.

"My opinion is that she should have access to the cleansers she desires and a lotion of some sort." Seeing that more was expected of her, she pushed one pile toward the middle of the table, where Stark's rejects, a deck of cards and a bag of purple gumballs, were stationed. "That is all."

"Very well. Thank you for your report, Halibel." Aizen passed over to Yammy, who looked distrustfully at the boxes in front of him. "Yammy?"

The largest Espada shared a look with the oldest, and turned to address Aizen and the rest. "I've heard that humans do a lot of odd things, Aizen-sama, but--"

"Give me that," Szayel interrupted, rolling his eyes as he reached across his neighbor to snatch a box of tampons from Yammy. Honestly, between the two of them they should have done better than that. "Aizen-sama, this is absolutely necessary, as is," he scanned the table for the plastic-wrapped cube of absorbent sheets, but didn't see it. "Well, there's another item like this, only wrapped in plastic and not cardboard. They go together."

Aizen nodded, motioning for him to add the box to the pile of necessities forming in front of Ulquiorra. "Thank you, Szayel." His eyes swept the remaining Espada and settled on Grimmjow, who was absently rolling a glass perfume bottle back and forth across his forehead. "Grimmjow."

Szayel craned his neck to see around Zommari when there wasn't a response. The strained, shallow breathing was unchanged, so he knew his patient wasn't dead, but that might change if he didn't perk up and answer Aizen. There was no Nyquil to blame this time around.

"Grimmjow," Aizen repeated, a touch more loudly.

"What'd I do this time?" he snapped, dropping the bottle with a dull _thunk_ and sitting back in his chair as if caught red handed. At Aizen's continued attention, he corrected himself. "I mean," he thought for a moment, "um, yes, Aizen-sama?" It was clearly a guess.

After reaching out to stand the perfume bottle right side up, Aizen pressed the back of his hand to Grimmjow's forehead, allowing a faint smile to flicker across his face at his Espada's obvious unease. "Still feverish, are we?"

Grimmjow visibly tensed at the question. "Wow you really _are_ some kind of genius, aren't you?"

As Grimmjow's outburst was followed by yet more of the ever-present coughing, Szayel eyed the others around the table, seeing a few winces and Ulquiorra taking a larger than usual gulp of tea. Sick or not, Grimmjow really had to start thinking things through before speaking, or it wouldn't be long before there was a new replacement in his chair. He looked up from Grimmjow to see if he could salvage the situation, but a look at the widening smile on Aizen's face kept him from talking. A little voice in the back of his mind commented that it was unkind of Aizen to bait the Espada least able to keep his opinions to himself.

Grimmjow remained down, even after the coughing had shifted to tiny, ineffective gasps for air. Szayel let out a breath and shook his head. It had been a long day for both of them, probably longer for Grimmjow. It was about time the Sexta Espada collapsed. Watching him struggle through the day, Szayel wouldn't wish this sort of illness on his enemies, except maybe the painted captain of the twelfth squad. That freak could suffer like this every day of eternity and Szayel wouldn't be satisfied.

His smile steadily fading to concern, Aizen waited the several minutes for Grimmjow's breathing to slowly even out, becoming a weak and shallow parody of normal breathing patterns. "Clearly, I underestimated your illness. You are dismissed, Grimmjow. Go to your rooms and rest."

"You... want me to leave the meeting early," Grimmjow questioned, not bothering to waste the energy to lift his head from the table.

"Yes, Grimmjow."

There was a confused pause, and Szayel had to strain his ears to hear the reply, even though the rest of the Espada were shocked into silence. No one left an official meeting early. Ever. They all remembered quite clearly what had happened the only time it had been attempted.

Apparently, Grimmjow remembered even better than they did, because he didn't move to obey the command. "I'm going to leave early... and not get in trouble for it." Though phrased as a statement, it was something he was obviously having trouble believing.

"Grimmjow," Aizen began, his voice lowering from patronizing concern to a warning.

"You're not going to blast me with reiatsu three feet from the door?"

Grimmjow didn't seem to realize he'd interrupted Aizen, which was probably what saved his life, as far as Szayel was concerned. He made a mental inventory of the human drugs now safely harbored in his lab and settled on the large pink bottle of liquid meant to settle stomachs. Yes. He'd have a dose or three of that when this meeting was over. As a preventative against the stress ulcers he could feel forming.

Aizen shifted his gaze from Grimmjow, looking a bit less paternal and a touch more annoyed, though still generally aloof. "Halibel, make sure he arrives. Gin's been playing with the hallways and I doubt Grimmjow can handle any shifts in the layout in his current state."

With a silent nod, Halibel rose and walked to Grimmjow's side, knelt, snaked an arm around his shoulders and stood, bringing Grimmjow up with her. "He's very warm, Aizen-sama," she commented.

He nodded. "I'll send Szayel to check on him soon."

"So that's all it takes, huh?" Nnoitra muttered as Halibel and Grimmjow made their way out into the hall. "A little coughing and she drapes herself all over you. What is it he's got, Pink?"

"Pneumonia," Szayel spat. "If you're interested, I could help you contract it."

Ulquiorra let out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, it is obviously quite enjoyable, Nnoitra."

"Well yeah, when you've got Halibel putting you to bed. Bet that uniform shifts a bit with all the--"

"Szayel," Aizen interrupted. "Your thoughts on this medicine?"

He cleared his throat, searching his mind for a way to say this that wouldn't land him back on Aizen's shit list. "Aizen-sama, this last week and a half has been--"

"Hellish," Stark interjected.

Szayel looked across the table at Stark and couldn't help but nod. "We couldn't sleep, then we couldn't even find Grimmjow except when he attacked us, and now there's this medicine that, to be honest, I'm afraid to give him. I don't know that we can handle it if this medicine makes things worse." He eyed the Espada who shared the east wing with him, noting the heads bobbing in agreement.

Stark sat up in his seat suddenly. "Wait. Why would medicine make it worse? It'll stop the coughing, right?"

"We hope," Szayel muttered.

"And it won't make him," Yammy paused, "what was your word for it?"

Szayel sighed. "Excitable. And no, it won't. It'll make him dizzy, nauseous, and anxious, and it'll give him nightmares, hallucinations, and headaches like he's never experienced."

Stark whistled. "I think I'd prefer the coughing, if it were me."

"I'm sure he'll think so, too. Therein lies one of the problems," Szayel said, drumming his fingers on the table. "If I can get him to take the medicine, we've still got to deal with side effects. I've never heard of anyone who reacted as strongly to meds as Grimmjow."

The room was silent for a moment, before Zommari spoke up. "How long should he take this medicine?"

"Twice daily for two weeks," Aizen said, tapping the newly folded information sheet. "With food."

"Aizen-sama," Stark began, "I request that I be permitted to spend the next two weeks in the north wing with my Fraccion. They need my guidance."

Szayel slapped his palm against table and leaned forward. "You can't just abandon me like that! I need someone strong to hold him down."

"Talk to Ulquiorra. He'd enjoy it."

Szayel gaped across the table, shocked at the blatant insult from the usually laid back Stark. That was the sort of comment he'd have expected from Nnoitra, but from Stark ...

"Actually," Ulquiorra said as he set down his tea, "if the medicine requires food, then perhaps Grimmjow should take over the feeding of Inoue Orihime. Temporarily, of course."

Aizen's expression shifted near the realm of surprise as he considered his most loyal Espada. "Are you unhappy with the job, Ulquiorra?"

"Of course not, Aizen-sama. I am happy to do anything you bid me do, no matter how tiring the task."

"It is logical for meals to be delivered to only one place," Aizen conceded, obviously satisfied with the answer. "Szayel will accompany you tonight to observe the procedure, and then he and Grimmjow will be adequately prepared to perform the task."

Szayel blocked out Nnoitra's predictable objection, focusing instead on the increasingly 'hellish' situation he found himself in. Grimmjow's keeper was a bad enough job, but add to that dealing with their prisoner on a one-to-one basis... with Grimmjow tagging along... if he'd thought he could get away with it, Szayel would have joined Nnoitra in protest.

The door to the meeting room opened, and Halibel's voice interrupted the bickering over meal delivery. "Aizen-sama, I don't think it is wise to leave Grimmjow on his own for long."

"He is resting, though?"

Halibel nodded as she took her seat. "It's about all he's capable of."

Nnoitra snorted and crossed his arms behind his head. "I volunteer to watch him. Bet there'll be some seriously fucked up and entirely entertaining nightmares with this medicine, eh?"

Stark swatted him in the side and jabbed a finger at his chipped mask. "Let me remind you what he's like when he's hopped up on medicine, fool. Hallucinations and nightmares? I can see it now. He wakes up from a dream about murderous silverware and there _you _are with your ridiculous spoon of a hood, and--"

"Stark."

He turned around to face Aizen with a petulant expression. "All I'm saying is--"

"I take it you're interested in the job?"

"_No!_" Stark shrank back into his seat, rubbing furiously at his mask. "I mean, no thank you, Aizen-sama. I don't feel it's in anyone's best interest that I spend too much time with Grimmjow until he's better."

Aizen nodded calmly. "Then it is decided. Szayel will continue to take excellent care of our ill comrade for the next two weeks."

"Yes, Aizen-sama," Szayel muttered, resigned to his fate. There must be some disobedience he hadn't realized he'd committed that he was being punished for. It was the only explanation. That, or Aizen was playing with his mind. However unpleasant the last week and half had been, he imagined he had even worse to look forward to.

* * *

Omake: 

As Aizen and his two advisors left the meeting room, Gin shook his head, his smile revealing confused amazement. "Well, they were cert'nly more animated than usual, eh?"

"We ran out of herbal tea," Aizen commented.

"Oh," Gin said, as if that explained everything. "Then they were drinkin'..."

Tousen made a noise of understanding in the back of his throat. "I had wondered why my coffee was missing."

* * *

Note: You know, I started this thing planning for each chapter to be a different take on Grimmjow, and it's turned into an ongoing story. Yikes. This only goes to show that I'm incapable of leaving well enough alone and just moving on to the next one-shot chapter. Sigh. In order to get some of the little one-shot things in here, I'll need to occasionally break this narrative. It seems easier than launching another collection of one-shots and having it morph into a chaptered story. Hope no one minds. 


	4. Good For You

Disclaimer: Fan fiction should be self explanatory by now, yes?

Mini-Summary: Yes, Szayel Aporro makes a mean cough syrup. And yes, he can chaperone sick Espada and shop 'til he drops. He's even pretty good at sorting through human toiletries. Szayel's faced a lot of challenges since being appointed the unofficial Espada medic. But can he make Ulquiorra's cooking palatable? And is it just Grimmjow's guess, or does Ulquiorra have an obsession with matching the colors of his ingredients?

* * *

Szayel forced out a deep breath and pushed the door open. If Aizen thought this was a good idea, even after hearing about the side effects, then he would do it. And the medicine would -- hopefully -- work as intended.

Halibel had left a lamp on in one corner, so Szayel didn't have to stumble around or let his eyes adjust. He made a mental note to thank her for that. At the very least, the added light source would eliminate the chance of Grimmjow's eyes glowing at him again. Since first encountering them, Szayel had, on occasion, seen those pinpoints of light in his dreams, and he'd prefer to keep them in his dreams rather than repeat the situation during his waking hours.

Grimmjow himself was loosely curled up on his side, his breathing so soft Szayel had to strain to hear it. Szayel took a moment to listen for a pattern, taking it as a good sign when he found one. Earlier, Grimmjow had simply been sucking in what air he could get, but now he was at least relaxed enough to pace his attempts. Of course, even a single cough was likely to send that pattern to hell.

Clenching a sweaty, gloved fist around the pill bottle, Szayel took the steps necessary to place himself near enough to his patient to nudge a shoulder. "Hey, Grimmjow."

His wake-up attempt was met with unintelligible grumbling, and Szayel sighed, interpreting the response to mean that Grimmjow was in fact awake, but not feeling particularly cooperative.

"Grimmjow, I need you awake so I can give you this medicine." Silence. "So you can breathe again," he emphasized, tapping a finger between Grimmjow's closed eyes. "You _do_ want to breathe again, right?"

"What," Grimmjow muttered, scrunching his eyes further shut, "do I have to do to get people to go away?"

Szayel shrugged, knowing the motion wouldn't register to his patient. "For starters, you can take this medicine."

"And then you'll leave me alone?"

Szayel frowned, rolling the pill canister between his palms. Aizen's orders couldn't have been clearer: Grimmjow was not to be left on his own for any longer than strictly necessary. Still, the Sexta Espada's preference for alone time was well known, and he hadn't gotten much of it in recent days. There was a clear line between obeying his orders and placating his patient, but Szayel decided to straddle it briefly. "For a while, sure, I'll leave you alone. I've got to get you something to eat with the medicine, grab some research to work on, some other things..."

Grimmjow opened his eyes at the statement and stared up at Szayel with an expression that would have been firmly planted in the realm of distrust if the fever hadn't supplied a bright gleam. "Food? Research?" He struggled a moment, but eventually managed to sit up without coughing. "Why food? What the hell kind of research would you," he sucked in a breath, "be working on that has to be done _here_?"

And here the conversation entered his area of expertise. "This," Szayel said, holding up the bottle, "will likely send sharp, shooting pains through your stomach unless you eat something with it. Medically speaking, the food isn't requisite, of course. But with food, we're dealing with general nausea instead of acute pain. The obvious preference, then, is to take it with food."

Hopefully, Grimmjow would not follow up with a demand for information on the research portion of things. Szayel found he always did better when his subjects were unaware of their status as such. Especially when said subjects were as volatile as Grimmjow. The best way to avoid follow up questions was to confuse the issue and then move ahead before there was time for them.

Szayel pulled up one of the chairs in the room and sat. "So. Let's discuss side effects, yes?" He took Grimmjow's silence as an affirmative, though he could tell the semi-delirious Sexta Espada was still working his way through the earlier statement about food and pain. "This medicine will kill the bacteria making you sick. For it to do that, you are going to have to take it exactly the way I tell you to. It's going to stay in your body for a long time, and each dose will build on the previous ones. In a week, you'll have the equivalent of--"

"I don't care," Grimmjow interrupted with an irritable head shake.

"What?"

"I don't care how it works, Pink. You lost me on 'bacteria.'"

Szayel smiled, and started to explain. "Bacteria are microscopic--"

"You don't have to go back and catch me up. I really don't give a shit." Grimmjow drew in a breath a little too quickly and winced as it caught in his throat.

Szayel found himself at a momentary loss at the notion that someone could be less than fascinated by bacteria, but swiftly recovered. "Okay then. We'll move ahead to the part where you swallow one of these pills twice a day and then eat a meal of some sort." _And_, he thought,_ we'll skip the headaches, dizziness, and nightmares_. Really, it would all go so much more smoothly if Grimmjow didn't know about those until they happened. If things started going right for once, they might not even encounter some of those side effects.

"Fine." Grimmjow held out a hand. "Let's get it over with so you can get the hell out of my room already."

"Ah, well..." Szayel got up and poured a glass of water. "I don't know about actually leaving for the evening or anything. You still need the food. But yes, let's start this course of medicine."

Grimmjow followed him with his eyes, still maintaining strict control over his breathing to avoid a coughing fit. "What if I'd rather just skip the food? Will that get you out faster?"

Szayel handed him the water, and then shook a pill out of the container. It was probably best to delay telling Grimmjow that he would have constant company for the next two weeks. "I'd recommend you eat with this."

"That's not what I asked."

"I know. But you really want to eat something after taking this." Szayel clamped his fingers around the pill and reluctantly held it out to his patient.

"What are my options?"

Szayel brought the menu to mind. "Ulquiorra said something about cucumbers and wasabi. I didn't get the details. You'd be eating whatever he cooks for the prisoner, though."

"Yeah," Grimmjow muttered, before downing the pill and half the water. "I'll pass."

"Suit yourself," Szayel said. "If it's about the taste, though, I'd go ahead and eat. The medicine will make everything taste like pocket change."

"That so?"

Szayel nodded. "Want some soup, then?"

Grimmjow shuddered. "Cucumber and wasabi don't go together in the first place, and he's going to turn them into a soup? Is it because they're both green?"

"I wouldn't presume to know. Should I assume you're going without the soup, then?"

"Could you catch him before he destroys the cucumbers?"

Szayel paused. "I could try." He got up and moved the chair back near its table. "I won't be gone long, Grimmjow. But I don't know how quickly that medicine is going to work, so if you see anything that doesn't make sense... or hell, if you hear, smell, taste, or feel it, just ignore it. It probably isn't real."

Grimmjow shot him a dirty look. "Just what the fuck is this shit, anyway?"

"It's good for you," Szayel reassured him as he slipped out into the hallway.

* * *

The next morning, Szayel leaned his shoulder against the kitchen door instead of mustering the effort it would take to actually press it open with a hand. The only sleep he'd managed during the night had been shattered by panicked mutterings about burnt toast and something called fish pies. To be honest, he'd expected any nightmares Grimmjow encountered to be based on actual, terrifying events, and not on culinary disasters. It was no less alarming, however, to be jarred awake by shouts about pastry. If anything, it was infinitely more disturbing.

"Good morning, Szayel," Ulquiorra intoned, keeping his attention fixed on the skillet in his hand.

Szayel grunted in response, flinging himself into a seat and putting his head down on his arms. After a moment, it occurred to him that Ulquiorra might know the answer to the question that had been bugging him since near midnight. "Ulquiorra? Humans don't actually bake pies with fish inside, do they?"

Ulquiorra set the skillet on an unused burner and reached into a cabinet for a golden bottle. "Would you like me to try?"

"Uh, no. Not actually. I was just wondering, is all." Szayel watched uneasily as Ulquiorra upended the bottle over the skillet and squeezed roughly a cup of honey out. "Does the prisoner _like_ your cooking?"

"I believe so. Though it hardly matters to me if she does not." Ulquiorra stirred the contents of the skillet a few times and emptied it out onto two plates. Lumps of mostly cooked egg swam in a sticky mixture of honey and butter. "It doesn't look as though you slept well," he commented as he slid into a seat across the table.

Szayel rubbed his eyes under his mask. "I didn't. I think I got an hour or two in, but not all at once. It doesn't help that the chairs in Las Noches are uniformly uncomfortable."

"Hmm." Ulquiorra nodded in understanding, the closest he ever got to agreeing with a complaint about Las Noches or Aizen. "And his fever? It must have gone down by now."

"Yeah," Szayel grumbled. "It broke around dawn. Or what would be dawn if we had such a thing. I sometimes envy the humans and their little world." He leaned back in his seat, letting his form slump a bit. "I don't know whether it was the medicine or the fever, Ulquiorra, but I don't ever want to deal with a delirious Grimmjow again."

The kitchen door swung open and Stark stumbled into the room, blundering over to the counter for a cup. "Damn Ulquiorra," he muttered with a glare. "Lucky-ass bastard doesn't have to sleep in the east wing." Stark set his mug of juice down on the table with a dull thump and joined them with a yawn.

"Is it actually that bad?"

"Bad?" Stark scratched at his head with his ungloved hand, his motions slow enough to display the fading scar from the ill-fated round of hide and seek. "Who knows. It's loud is all I can tell."

Ulquiorra looked at him blankly.

"You'd think a guy who can't breathe wouldn't be able to get much volume, but you'd be wrong." Stark let his head fall onto the table before finishing in a mumble. "Bastard's loud as fuck."

Szayel sighed, and reached for Stark's mug. "Half of what he's yelling about is in French anyway." He took a gulp of juice, regretted it, and set the mug back down in front of its rightful owner. Orange, yes. Citrus, no. Beyond that, Szayel was content to be ignorant on the matter.

The Cuarta Espada cocked his head to the left, as though weighed down by his mask. "I hardly equate Grimmjow with the French language."

"Neither did I," Szayel agreed. "But it's pretty hard to mistake the words as anything but French. I mean, 'pâté en croûte saumoné' can only be French, right?"

Stark lifted his head from the table. "Don't forget 'pain grillé.' He was big on that, too."

Szayel nodded. "From the context, I think that one means toast."

"It means lost sleep. That's all." Stark's forehead rejoined the table, narrowly missing the orange mystery juice.

Ulquiorra got up and placed one of the plates onto a cart along with a mug of juice and a pair of bananas. "For the time being, perhaps it is better if I leave you to care for Grimmjow without the added task of feeding Inoue Orihime."

Szayel looked up, fighting back the giddy grin he felt spreading across his face. "Really?"

"It doesn't sound as though Grimmjow is fit to be left alone or to accompany you. Therefore, it is more sensible that you concentrate your efforts where they are most needed."

"Yeah," Stark mumbled. "You should probably get back there, anyway. He was saying something about the walls moving when I left."

Szayel turned his eyes up towards the ceiling and sighed again. "Shit."

Ulquiorra handed him the spare plate of honeyed eggs. "I'll ask Zommari about the French. From what I hear, he is quite fluent."

"Thanks."

* * *

Szayel returned to Grimmjow's room to find the Sexta Espada hidden beneath a mound of blankets, the edges all precisely tucked under to avoid even the tiniest crack of light. He paused a moment to wonder just how Grimmjow was managing to breathe under there, but then shook his head. Either he was hiding from the walls or just wanted it darker, but it hardly mattered which.

He nudged the table over closer to the bed and set the plate down on it. "It's time for round two, Grimmjow. Get up."

"Go to hell." The response was muffled by the blankets, but still clear enough to be understood. "You're not getting anywhere near me with that shit."

Szayel sighed, and pinched the bridge of his mask. "Grimmjow, we went over this. Sit up and take the medicine."

"No."

"You need to, Grimmjow, or you'll get even sicker." Szayel felt his patience running out like sand from a broken hourglass. He could understand the reluctance, but really, an Espada should suck it up and do what was necessary. "Come on, Grimmjow."

"Not. Gonna. Happen." The lump didn't so much as twitch.

Szayel let out a frustrated sigh. "Aizen said so, it's an order!"

"I'm the last person that'll work on," Grimmjow muttered. "Get that shit out of here. It reeks."

"Please," Szayel tried. "You can't just skip doses like this. It's a process, like I told you. It'll build on itself." Of course, Grimmjow hadn't been interested in learning about the process, but that was immaterial at the moment.

Szayel reached out and took hold of a corner of blanket. He tugged. The blanket tugged back. "Grimmjow, stop being a baby. Just cooperate for once in your life, would you?"

"_Go the fuck away_." The blankets pulled themselves tighter.

"Grimmjow..." Szayel debated his strength relative to the Sexta Espada's in the current situation, and decided he could probably best him this once using the element of surprise. He wrenched at the sheets, his leverage giving him even further advantage.

The exertion of fighting back sent his patient into a coughing fit that was more worrisome for its weakness than any of the previous ones had been for all their strength. _Shit_, Szayel thought. _He should have more energy than this. We're losing ground if he can't even cough properly_. Still, the path to recovery lay in the very thing Grimmjow was being obstinate about. Szayel gathered the blankets up while keeping a close eye on his patient as the coughs subsided.

"If I didn't think you'd choke on it, I'd force this down your throat," he muttered, tossing the balled up sheets on the floor next to the bed.

Grimmjow's response, for all it was as worn out as the rest of him, still had some bite to it. "It's fucking eggs and honey," he gasped, holding his chest with a grimace. "I'd rather cough myself to death."

Szayel sat down in the chair he'd left by the bed earlier. "You _will_ cough yourself to death if you don't take this medicine. Just eat the food and take the medicine, Grimmjow." He rubbed his temples and sighed. "I don't know why you're being so stubborn about it. It's one meal."

"That's not a meal. It's not _food_, even," he muttered. "My stomach's dodging blows and I haven't introduced the enemy yet."

"Just try it."

"_You_ try it," he spat.

Szayel gritted his teeth. "I don't need to eat it because I'm not taking this medicine because _I'm not sick_!" He recalled having, if not this exact conversation, then a very similar conversation earlier. He was getting nowhere with this. He'd been unable to convince Grimmjow to take the cough syrup, and history was repeating itself. Well fine, then. Let history repeat itself.

"You know what?" he asked, getting to his feet. "Fuck it. I'm getting Stark."

"What?"

Szayel shook his head, looking at Grimmjow with scowl. "He's stronger than you are on a good day, and you are _not_ having a good day." He spun on his heel and walked toward the door.

"Hey," Grimmjow weakly called after him. "Wait. Pink! Hold on."

His hand on the door, Szayel stopped, listening to the Sexta Espada gasp for the air to keep arguing. Szayel wasn't sure what Grimmjow was upset about now, but he sounded just a touch desperate.

"Okay," he panted, still fighting for air as he leaned back against the wall. "You win, you win."

Szayel turned to face Grimmjow, struggling to keep the disbelief from his face. Anxiety _was_ a possible side effect, but this didn't seem right. Still, he was an opportunist if nothing else. "You agree to take this medicine,_ with food_," he emphasized, "as directed, until it's all gone or I take you off of it?"

Grimmjow eyed Ulquiorra's meal with a great deal of hesitation and seemed about to refuse, but a shrug from Szayel changed his mind immediately. "Sure. Whatever. Just..." He scooped the pill from the table and swallowed it with the water. "...you don't need backup, okay?"

"Why?"

It took Grimmjow over a minute to respond, even after he got his breathing back under control. "I ain't too keen on being held down."

"Stark seems to think you took the cough syrup without a struggle." The higher ranking Espada had, in fact, been quite clear on that point. All it had taken was the prospect of winning a game.

"I don't even remember cough syrup," Grimmjow muttered.

"You don't..." Memory loss was common with high fevers, but it wouldn't explain this instance. That he knew of, Grimmjow hadn't even had a fever then, just the cough. "You don't remember it at all?"

Grimmjow folded his arms over his chest and glared at him. "I know I refused to drink that shit when you brought it."

Szayel returned the glare, and shoved the plate nearer to his patient. "And now look where we are." When Grimmjow made no move to take up the spoon, Szayel raised an eyebrow. "You said I won, Grimmjow. You said you'd follow my directions." Szayel paused, and found himself unable to resist getting in a jibe. "Or don't you remember?"

* * *

OMAKE:

Thirty minutes later...

Grimmjow wiped his sleeve across his mouth before shoving the plate back into Szayel's hands.

"That's only one bite, Grimmjow. I'm impressed that it took you so long to manage it, but the plate is still full."

"If--" Grimmjow choked back a gag. "If that shit goes down, it ain't staying there."

Szayel sighed. "Oh, come on. We've both got better things to do with our time."

"It's _eggs _and_ honey_, Szayel," he whined. "Ulquiorra should be shot for creating this."

"Well how about I go get you something else. Then when I come back, you'll eat and try to keep it all down longer than thirty minutes. Sound good?"

Grimmjow shook his head, still holding his stomach. "Not really."

"Fair enough. But you'll do it anyway."

* * *

Notes: Yeah, this took forever to update, didn't it? My semester features a writing class this time around, and we've got to write a story every week. So naturally, most of my available writing time is devoted to the stuff that gets graded. Many apologies. Also, many thanks for the reviews that keep me wanting to hoard time for writing this piece. They are all very appreciated.


	5. Don't Mention It

Disclaimer: Fan fiction should be self explanatory by now, yes?

Mini-Summary: Prequel: Grimmjow, beginning to succumb to the flu, has to get an unwilling Orihime from point A to point B--without bruises. With a repertoire composed almost entirely of violence and threats, this could be a struggle for him.

Chronology: Somewhat of a prequel here. Writing sick people is a touch monotonous, and before the really fun stuff happens, poor Grimmjow needs more medicine in his system. So. This is after he's been infected (that's a whole chapter to itself, really), but before people really pick up on it. For kicks and giggles, I decided to try my hand at Orihime.

* * *

"Grimmjow."

The Sexta Espada let his eyes wander the throne room, following the outlines of brownish rock that climbed Aizen's perch. He wasn't sure whether he was more curious or more annoyed that they were different each time he came here. He usually avoided the cavernous chamber entirely but it was cooler in Aizen's throne room than anywhere else in Las Noches, and he was tired of the heat outside, to say nothing of the heat he felt in his own head.

An elbow in his side and a muttered 'he's talking to you' from Nnoitra dragged his attention back to the dim shape within the glass cage below. Aizen stood before it, Hōgyoku in hand, looking up at him expectantly.

Grimmjow sighed inwardly and searched for the proper response. This was precisely _why _he usually avoided the place. "Yes, Aizen-sama?"

"I want Inoue Orihime to join us this afternoon, as she's never seen an arrancar birth." Aizen paused as though expecting a response from him, but continued after a moment without one. "Bring her here, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow counted no fewer than seven other arrancar in the room, including Halibel and Nnoitra. Why he had to be the one to go fetch the prisoner was unclear. So what if Ulquiorra wasn't here to take care of his little project? How did that make the job his?

"I'll do it!" Nnoitra called out from beside him. The bangles on his wrist jingled as he waved his arm around eagerly. "I'll bring her right here, swift as you please, Aizen-sama."

Aizen seemed about to speak, but Tousen stepped forward with a frown. "Aizen-sama did not give the task to you, Nnoitra. It is Grimmjow's to perform."

As thrilled as he was to see Tousen getting pissy on someone else's ass for a change, Grimmjow bit back his comment to that effect. Regardless of what people thought, he _did _have a healthy sense of self-preservation when consequences had been laid out in advance. There was no need to tempt sword-happy Tousen over something like this.

He got to his feet smoothly, using the grace of his motions to mask their slowness. It wasn't so much the fighting, he told himself, as it was that mysterious 'flu' thing the cat-formed shinigami had mentioned. Their fight had been good, her coughing and sneezing less so, but this full-body ache and fever were just plain miserable. He hoped they were on the way out.

Logically, Grimmjow knew there was only so long he could hide them, and he recalled Stark being supremely upset after Szayel visited his room to cure a fever and cough. All things considered, he didn't want the Octava anywhere near him, and to ensure this, he couldn't afford to let on that this was anything more than a nagging cough.

"Grimmjow."

Hearing his name again, Grimmjow fought the urge to roll his eyes and turned his attention back to Aizen. "Yeah?"

"I want to be absolutely clear on this," Aizen said. "You are _escorting _her here, not dragging her. No busted doors, no bruises, no torn clothing, no threats, no tears, no chains. There will be no need to pull her hair or fling her over your shoulder like a caveman."

"Like a what?"

Aizen smiled that smile that pissed Grimmjow off the most, the patronizing one that oozed superiority and hinted at a threat. "It doesn't matter. There's no need to pick her up or otherwise force her. Do you understand?"

The intelligent thing to do was to nod his head and say 'yes, Aizen-sama,' before fetching the woman. That wasn't at all what he wanted to do, though. He wanted to show his resentment at being half-lectured, half-scolded, like a child who needed to be taught how to behave himself. He was a fucking Espada, and while Aizen was the top of the chain for now, it didn't mean the rest of them were so far beneath him. He briefly entertained the mental image of Aizen's face after a set of claws had been dragged through it, then dropped the image before it could show in his expression.

Grimmjow shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hakama and scowled. "Yes, Aizen-sama," he muttered, before turning to follow his orders. Whoever said he lacked self-restraint had never been inside his head.

* * *

It was hotter than he'd remembered out here. At least in the real world there was a sun in the sky to make it hot. This artificial crap of Aizen's was hot for no good reason. Grimmjow took a deep breath, coughed a little, and made a conscious effort not to fan himself. If he ever met that cat woman again, he'd kill her, orders or no orders. Fucking, flu-ridden bitch.

The wind started up again, and he had a moment to enjoy it before the sugar and oats smell wafted over. That it had taken so long meant the woman had fallen behind again. He stopped and turned to face her.

"Come _on_, woman." Grimmjow almost folded his arms across his chest, but figured he'd rather feel what little breeze there was. "We don't have all day. Walk faster."

She looked up, pushing her hair out of her face. "I am walking faster. You're taller than I am, that's all!"

Grimmjow fidgeted impatiently as he watched her catch up, and then started walking again. The smell was a familiar one, slightly stronger than her usual honey and nuts scent. It took him a moment to place it. Granola bars. Stark had brought back a pair of them in shiny foil wrappers after a trip to Karakura Town, and they'd split them up amongst the East wing Espada. Despite the sweet smell, they'd tasted bland, like oats and nuts and nothing else. He wondered if the woman would be the same, but concluded that she'd probably taste less like granola and more like meat.

"Oh no!"

He gritted his teeth and turned to find her several feet away and stationary. "What the fuck, woman? Now you're not walking at all! When I said 'faster,' that's not what I meant." Grimmjow failed to see the point behind allowing her to walk at her own pace if her own pace meant a snail's crawl. They'd have arrived twenty minutes ago if he'd done it his way, and then he'd be back in the cool and out of this sweltering heat.

She knelt down beside a lopsided red building and reached for something on the ground. "Look, he's fallen."

Grimmjow walked back towards her and glanced down at the tiny, fuzz-covered object cradled in her hands. A smear of blood marked where the impact had caved in the bird's head. "So what?"

"It doesn't have a mask," she murmured, bringing the stiff little corpse to her chest.

"Drop the fucking bird," he growled at her. "We don't have time for that shit."

She lowered the bird to a relatively level stone and brought her hands up to her barrettes. The bird was surrounded in yellow glow.

Grimmjow contemplated kicking the building since he wasn't allowed to kick the woman. "Why are you even bothering?" he asked. "It can't get back up in the nest anyway, 'cause it can't fly." This must be another one of her human things, he mused. Like what Ulquiorra had mentioned about her being upset when her 'friends' were dying even though it was their own damn fault for showing up here.

"Grimmjow? How are there birds in Hueco Mundo?"

He looked down at her, and shrugged. She might as well get a real answer since she was going to be stubborn about the whole thing, anyway. "They fly in through the garganta. Birds are dumb as fuck. Don't know what a miserable shit hole Hueco Mundo is, and they're too stupid to leave once they get here."

Her expression turned from frightened curiosity to something akin to pity, and his urge to slap her senseless spiked. Concern, he could handle. Pity was entirely different. Worse, he got the distinct impression that the pity was more for him than for the bird. Briefly, Grimmjow wondered where Ulquiorra found the restraint to serve her meals twice a day. He waited until the Shun Shun Rikka returned, and then turned his back on her.

"There, I let you heal the damn thing. Now come on, already. Aizen's holding things up just for you." He felt a tug on his jacket and repressed his instinctual attack reflex.

"We can't just leave him here," she exclaimed, holding the bird out to him.

"Yeah," he grunted. "We _can_."

"He belongs in the nest with his parents!"

Grimmjow spat into the sand. "Well he can't get up there, so you're wasting your time. And my time. And Aizen's time." Though, really, he could care a flying fuck about Aizen's time. If the bastard didn't want him hoisting the woman under an arm, he could just wait all day. It would serve him right.

"Y-you could put him in the nest, Grimmjow."

"No." He ignored the bird's high-pitched cheeps, ignored the woman's indrawn sniffle, ignored the throbbing pain deep behind his eyes. "Some little predator gets a snack later on. We're gonna be late."

The woman's hand bunched tighter in the fabric of his jacket. "But he's just a baby!" she pleaded. "He's lonely and scared, and his parents miss him."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. "I don't believe this shit." He finally turned to face the woman, glaring down at her hopeful expression. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. "What is wrong with you that you think I'm the sort of person who'll go out of his way for a fucking baby bird? Huh?"

"Please!"

He shook his head. "Look, if it's too stupid to realize it hasn't got any feathers yet, it'll just suicide again--"

"Do something nice for once in your life!"

Maybe it was her tone. Maybe the words hit a nerve. Maybe he was just sick of being ordered around. It didn't matter why, but one hand shot out and sent the bird tumbling to the sand with a thump while the other clenched around her wrist and jarred her loose from his jacket. "Forget the bird, woman! We're going. Come on."

With an obstinacy he'd only seen her display once before, she dug her heels into the sand and pulled against his grip. Ideally, he'd have broken that tiny wrist and dragged her along anyway. But he had orders, and it was so much harder to gently drag unwilling people.

"But the bird!" she wailed, looking over her shoulder at the stumbling, cheeping lump.

He jerked her toward him so her face was nearer his own. "_Fuck _the bird," he snarled down at her. "Get your ass in motion or I'll start to think you preferred the chains!"

The response was immediate, and not what he wanted. Her lower lip began trembling, and tears threatened to spill from her widened eyes. He wouldn't have cared much except that she still wasn't moving, and his orders were pretty specific about tears. Also bruises.

He felt a familiar tingle through his left arm at the thought of Tousen's warped sense of justice and his fingers sprang from the woman's wrist as though burned. He'd intended to check the damage he'd done, but she was already back with the bird, cradling it again in her arms as she rocked back and forth in the sand.

Grimmjow cleared the cough from his throat and tried to wrap his mind around the easiest solution to the problem. Clearly, it could not involve violence or shouting. That left his repertoire amazingly thin. He didn't understand why the bird meant so much to her. It was just a bird. Not even big enough to be a meal. She was crying over the thing like it was the next Kuroksaki.

He scanned the horizon for witnesses. "Look," he began, trying to keep a calm voice despite his irritation. "If I put the bird back in that nest, will you heal your wrist and cooperate the rest of the way?"

She looked up at him, disbelief and hope warring for control of her expression. "Would you?"

"Would _you_?"

Satisfied at her nod, he snatched the bird up by its spindly feet and held it upside down at eye level. "This is ridiculous." If he didn't have orders not to so much as pull the little bitch's hair, this would never be happening. Stifling a cough, he scanned the building for the nest and jumped up to roughly plop the bird into it.

"Now _move_."

She looked up at the nest, wiped away her tears, and smiled before calling out her Shun Shun Rikka and matching his pace. "Well at least there's one part of Hueco Mundo that's peaceful now," she sighed. The glow to his right faded away. "They're all together again. Now they can be a happy family."

Grimmjow found himself longing for the silence he'd enjoyed when she was unhappily trying to keep up earlier. Happy family. He scoffed mentally, ignoring her cheerful blather. Hueco Mundo didn't have room for happy _or _for families. Fucking shit hole. Fucking birds. He made mental plans to come back this way and cero the nest with its goddamned fucking happy bird family. None of the arrancar had ever gotten any happy family shit. It didn't belong here.

He'd gotten to the part where he imagined her dismay at finding feathers in her food, when there was a gap in the solid wall of her babble. "What?" he asked.

"I said thank you, Grimmjow. For the bird."

"Don't mention it," he muttered. In all seriousness, it would be better if she never said another word about it. He could just imagine the pre-meeting table talk if people found out. He wasn't sure which would be more brutal, Nnoitra's open-faced taunting or Ulquiorra's snide understatements. Possibly Zommari's silent approval would trump them both for irritation factor.

But that wouldn't be the end of it, he knew. He was incapable of sitting through that without defending his actions, saying it was the only way to get her here unbruised. But the moment he did that, Ulquiorra would quote that stupid thing about "protesting too much" like he had when Nnoitra insisted that he didn't want to sex up their prisoner. He'd never get out of it once it started, and the only way to avoid it was for the woman to keep her trap shut.

"Grimmjow?"

He was getting so sick of people calling his name to get his attention. Why did she even have to be talking? It wasn't like he'd done anything to _invite _conversation.

"What if the birds are like roaches in Las Noches?" she asked, her eyes suspiciously innocent.

Grimmjow drew back from her, sensing he wasn't going to like what was coming. "So what if they were?"

The woman shook her head, and continued. "I mean, if telling someone about them got them exterminated, I don't think I'd ever mention them, you know?" She sighed, looking back over her shoulder, though the nest was too far in the distance to see. "I could only talk about the birds if they were gone. If something horrible happened to them."

He opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again. Cero blast probably fit into her definition of horrible, as did finding feathers in her food. He got the sense he wasn't going to win this one.

She let out a second contented sigh as they approached the double doors to the throne room. "I'm just glad they're happy, aren't you?"

Grimmjow shoved her ahead of himself through the doors, refusing to answer. So it was blackmail, he thought. The bitch was craftier than he gave her credit for.

* * *

Omake:

Szayel frowned at his clipboard, willing time to skip forward by a month, when this would all hopefully be over. According to his tally, they were only four days into the medicine. Eight doses down, twenty to go. He'd had all of twelve hours of sleep, spread out whenever he could catch them. At this rate, he'd rather be sick himself than dealing with Grimmjow.

The Sexta Espada might not have cared about bacteria or the medicine's accumulative affects, but Szayel saw those twenty tally marks and felt nothing but dread. At the moment, Grimmjow was on the upward slope, building up to an eventual concentration of fourteen doses in his system at once. It would be a miserable experience for both of them that would last a whole week before the medicine was all taken and would gradually wear off.

If he was the type, he'd cry.

"I think we deserve happy family shit, too," Grimmjow muttered at the wall.

Szayel looked up at him, and sighed. At least it wasn't in French. "I'm over here, Grimmjow."

"I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to the birds."

Szayel pinched the bridge of his mask and let out a breath. Clearly, the returned fever was frying his patient's brain. He got to his feet to go retrieve some ice from the kitchen.

* * *

Note: It's kind of sad, really. None of the current Espada would understand "happy family shit" if they _did _get to experience it. Hueco Mundo breeds unhappiness and desolation. I like to think that on some level they realize this, too. That they're missing out on something. Poor Espada.


	6. Moving Day

Disclaimer: Clearly, I don't own these persons, places, or things. You're reading this on a site devoted to fan fiction, remember?

Note: I like to think of Grimmjow as having some definite big cat tendencies, in addition to being an impulsive, obsessive, loud-mouthed, short-tempered bastard (whom I find endearing anyway). Kudos if you can spot all the big cat evidence throughout this story. I usually keep it somewhat subtle, except for obvious ones like sense of smell.

Yeah. I know. I'm skipping around a bunch lately. I have some dialogue all plotted out for a chapter, but I can't get Nnoitra's internal voice. At all. I've scrapped so many drafts it's not even funny. I was flipping through manga volumes to get the Nnoitra thing, and ended up reading the last of Luppi. So here's something else in the meantime, about as prequel-y as I'd care to write. Sorry it's not Nnoitra and Sick!Grimmjow. Their dialogue is nice, but...

Mini-Summary: When Grimmjow got demoted, Luppi took his job, his rank, his room. Now that Grimmjow's back in action, he wants things the way they were. Should be easy, right? Well, yes, if you discount Grimmjow's sense of smell and Luppi's love of all things scented. Somewhat obviously, this takes place right after Inoue heals Grimmjow's arm, _way _before all the other stuff.

* * *

Grimmjow studied the woman as they escorted her from the throne room, tallying up his findings as the door closed behind her. Long hair the same color as that loud-mouthed Shinigami's, and a faint smell like chilled sunflowers and honey, with the sharp tinge of fear underneath it all. She was trying to hide it, but the wide eyes had given it away to anyone who hadn't already picked up the scent. She was tall for a girl, he decided, but shapely enough to make up for it.

And an impossibly skilled healer. That was most important. That was what would keep her alive until Aizen decided the war was won, and--coupled with that delicious fear--it was what would make her useful to him if he ever found himself in need of another miracle.

The voices of the other arrancar who'd gone to Karakura Town washed over him along with a wave of palpable displeasure from Tousen's direction. Grimmjow tried to force the smirk from his face and concentrate on the information being presented, but Tousen's reprimanding glower only made him want to cackle a bit more. The sharp heat from his cero blast had faded the moment it hit that eight-armed bastard usurper, but as he continued to stretch his fingers, he could still feel the far gentler warmth from the woman's shield.

The six on his back was prickly again, like it had just been inked. It was his again. There was something sleek about the number 6, about the way the tail curved upward like his own in resurrección form. The hiss of a properly pronounced six, the spitting snarl of its ending in the throat, everything about six made it _his_. Luppi had been undeserving from the beginning, and the only thing better than enlightening the freak to that fact would be smashing that Shinigami's masked face into the ground the next time they met. Maybe the third time he wouldn't be interrupted.

"And you, Grimmjow?"

He blinked teal-lined eyes once and followed the voice up the ridiculously high throne to Aizen's expectant, patronizing expression. "What?" he snapped.

Aizen smiled down at him with too-patient understanding and drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne before repeating himself. "I appreciate your desire to bask in the glow of your restored rank, Grimmjow. We are waiting, however, for your report. What of the Vaizard?"

There was danger in that question. Aside from the patronizing and hidden impatience, Aizen's demand for a report on the yellow-haired stranger was designed to gather information Grimmjow wasn't ready to part with. News that the Shinigami had a new trick up his sleeve could prove disastrous for his plans to get revenge for that first injury. If Aizen decided the kid was worth their attention, he sure wouldn't let Grimmjow near him. Nnoitra or Halibel would probably get that honor, or Ulquiorra if Aizen felt like rubbing it in his face.

Even so, he still had to answer. "That blond guy with the mask? Yeah, he was strong," he said dismissively. "Captain level, maybe. I would have destroyed him if I hadn't been _detained_." Grimmjow shot a glare in Ulquiorra's direction which the shorter arrancar ignored. "Not sure what the mask was about, but he shot a cero at me." Could the punk Shinigami fire a cero if his mask lasted long enough? Grimmjow hoped he'd have a chance to find out.

Aizen nodded to acknowledge his statement. "And he did not seem to be working with the Shinigami?"

Grimmjow shook his head, wondering briefly at the undercurrent in Aizen's voice. "Just keepin' his territory clear." _Must have taught the kid how to wear a mask_, Grimmjow realized. If they kept training, he might get a good fight when he saw the kid next. But only if Aizen didn't sniff around. "No one wearing a hollow mask wants to work with Shinigami. We won't see him again."

As he'd expected, Aizen let the jibe slide by without any warning beyond an uncannily _knowing _look, while Gin smiled his sly fox grin and Tousen's scowl of disapproval deepened. A wave and a "very well" signaled their dismissal, and he joined the dispersing Espada, grimacing slightly at the notion of being waved off by someone who had no right even being in Hueco Mundo, let alone ruling it.

He continued down the pristine hallways, following the twists and turns, and almost walking towards Tres Sciflas out of fresh habit. Grimmjow's footsteps halted abruptly in front of the door with the bold, black 6 centered on it, and he shifted to face the door, tracing his finger along the curved back of the number in a light caress. How he had missed it. A bit of pressure applied to the number swung the door open, and a wall of oppressively melon-scented air rushed out over him.

Gagging, Grimmjow wheeled away from the doorway, covering his nose and mouth with his newly-restored hand as he dry-retched. He felt able to approach the door again after several minutes of adjusting to the onslaught, breathing through his mouth to avoid the worst of the smell.

A few steps brought him through the door and into the middle of a pastel paradise. Fluffy white satin pillows spilled frothy pink lace onto the bed. Lamps with rose-colored shades tossed soft light into the room from every corner. Several delicately carved wooden tables housed pale candles of various colors, heights, shapes, and sizes. There was a rug in pink and green paisley spread on the floor leading to the bathroom where glittering tubes of iridescent jewel-tone liquids and creams littered the countertops. It took Grimmjow all of five minutes to take in the full effect and explode.

"What the hell did you do to my room, you bastard!" he roared, stalking forward and swiping candles to the floor. "You were only in it a month!" Candles were kicked out into the hallway hard enough to smear the walls with waxy color where they struck. The tables followed them, splintering in the corridor. A crystal bowl of brightly colored stones was next. "Shit! Everything's fucking _pink!_"

* * *

Grimmjow's head had never hurt so bad in all his memory, but he'd nearly purged the room of the girly, eight-armed freak's influence by the time one of the Números came to retrieve him for a meeting discussing the new prisoner's housing. Though he longed to finish ridding himself of Luppi, the thought of leaving the area and getting fresher air was greatly appealing. He'd tried--on the premise of knowing one's enemy--but he couldn't understand the need for hand lotion, especially hand lotion that smelled like rotten bananas and overripe mangoes. There'd been three tubes of the stuff on the sink in three different appalling combinations of smells that weren't even pleasant individually.

This was to say nothing of the creams meant, apparently, to be rubbed into one's hair, the tube of paint the same color as those three diamonds he'd always thought were real markings on Luppi's forehead, or the tiny brushes in a case to one side. He'd inadvertently knocked over a random lacquered box at one point and sent up a cloud of powdery dust that had him sneezing and gasping and running to the hall for air that didn't burn his lungs and smell like singed talc.

His temporary replacement had had a good reason for rubbing something like that on his face, and Grimmjow knew that reason well. The idiot had been full out, bat shit crazy and entirely without a sense of self preservation. And admittedly, Grimmjow had had his own reasons for opening every single one of those concoctions: a curiosity that occasionally obliterated _his _sense of self-preservation.

Grimmjow followed the Número out into the hallway, but paused outside to press the weaker arrancar up against the wall. "Do us all a favor and get this shit gone," he muttered with a nod toward the wreckage of candle wax, splinters, shredded carpet, and twisted plastic tubes. Satisfied with the subordinate arrancar's fearful head jerk, he moved onward toward the meeting hall.

When this meeting--as completely unnecessary as all the others, he was sure--was over, either the pile outside his door would be gone, or Aizen would find himself short another arrancar. Grimmjow had a strong suspicion the former would be the case, and maybe the smears from open tubes and mashed up candles would be cleared as well. The important bit was that the hallway wouldn't reek any more.

He sank into his seat with a grunt and glared at the cup of tea steaming on the table. If the self-proclaimed ruler of Hueco Mundo couldn't let go of the traditions of his past, he couldn't very well expect them to, and Grimmjow's traditions included _not_ sitting around a table listening to people say stupid things for the sake of hearing their own voices. Grimmjow rubbed his nose and looked down the table at the other gathered Espada. It seemed he was one of the earlier arrivals, which was galling in its own way.

It had been a while, but he'd heard no mention of a new, odorless, flavor of tea being introduced over the last month. Since no one was paying any attention to him, Grimmjow peered over the rim at the liquid. Pale green. The tea was identical to the norm, but had somehow lost its mown hay smell. In some ways, that was for the better, since the green tea always made his nose itch, but the notion that the past several hours had stripped him of his sense of smell was disconcerting nevertheless. If Luppi weren't dead and gone, Grimmjow would have loved to kill him again.

Since Zommari hadn't arrived yet, Grimmjow had a clear view of Szayel as the pink-haired Espada delicately lowered himself into the seat two positions to the right. Szayel made an excellent hall mate for all his irritating self importance. Now that he thought on it, the rest of them on the East wing weren't half bad, either.

With all the time he spent in his lab, Pink was hardly around. Stark slept most of the morning, took a mid afternoon nap, and was in bed just after dusk. Halibel was the quietest of them all, and Yammy was too busy following Ulquiorra around to be a bother. Hands down, they were better than irritating Dordonii and his insistence that they all dance instead of walk.

"I couldn't help but notice your artwork on the walls, Grimmjow," Szayel murmured, flashing him that creepy, I'm-thinking-about-dissecting-you smile. "I thought for a moment it must be Wonderweiss, but--"

"Shut it, Pink."

"Just a bit of house keeping?"

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. "I've seen the inside of your lab. You've got room to talk about colorful walls. It's like a fucking vampire exploded after a big meal."

"Those are chemical stains, Grimmjow. I'm a much neater diner than my lab walls would indicate."

He barely suppressed a shudder. "I'm not sure I believe you," he muttered. Privaron didn't actually do laundry, he'd learned in the last month. But they did have to supervise while lesser arrancar did the chore, and Szayel's dirty uniforms disturbed even him.

"Is this really necessary?" Yammy whined from the end of the table. "I just ate, and I can do without the visual."

"Aizen-sama prefers that we keep our quarters neat," Ulquiorra murmured from across the table. "I believe this would include your laboratory, Szayel. You should look into it."

Grimmjow let a smirk crawl across his face as Szayel's shoulders drooped. It was not often the Cuarta Espada issued reprimands, and it was less often that the reprimand was delivered to anyone except Yammy or himself. The change was nice, but not long-lived.

"And Grimmjow," he continued as Zommari and Nnoitra sat to complete the Espada, "you should clean the wall if you've smeared it with Luppi's trash." Ulquiorra finished by calmly taking a sip of tea and settling back in his seat with his eyes closed.

Grimmjow ground his teeth. "Last I checked, your name wasn't Aizen, you gloomy little ass clown," he muttered under his breath.

Ulquiorra's eyes shot open at the statement, but the door opened as if Grimmjow's comment about Aizen had summoned the man himself. Grimmjow set his face in as respectful a scowl as he could manage and prepared to block out the next two hours. Ostensibly, this was a meeting to determine where in Las Noches they would be keeping the woman long term. The likelihood that Aizen didn't already know exactly where he'd be keeping her was somewhere on the far side of none on the slim/none spectrum, which made this whole gathering meaningless.

"Greetings, my Espada," the man began smoothly.

Grimmjow managed to avoid meeting Aizen's eyes as they swept over the room's occupants before the ex-shinigami continued with the meeting. As long as the woman didn't end up in the East wing, he'd be fine with whatever decision was handed down. It was unlikely anyone but Nnoitra would have an opinion anyway, since the woman was to the taller Espada's tastes. For his part, the meeting would be best spent planning the remainder of the Great Purge. High on his list was shredding those satin bedsheets and the lace-trimmed pillows. _Lace_. Grimmjow bit back a scoff. Only a loser like Luppi would sleep with lace. In addition to being a complete rat bastard, that fool had no sense of smell and even less taste.

Within minutes, he was lost in his throbbing headache and the wash of unnatural, too-polite voices around him. He wondered whether his leaving the door open would help dissipate the residual fruity stink hanging about the room, and whether he'd be able to tolerate the smell when this long-ass meeting was over. If not, he'd be ripping his number off the door and relocating, and screw Aizen's carefully considered room assignments and the "balance of Espada between two wings." There was no officially posted rule locking Grimmjow into the East wing of Las Noches. There were plenty of other rooms scattered about the place, and most of them would mean fewer neighbors.

He was deciding which lamp to smash first on his return, when the sound of his name caught his attention. It took him a second to register the full sentence, and he glared at Ulquiorra across the table. "What do you mean, 'we should have her room near Grimmjow?' I don't want her any closer than she has to be."

"I'm simply referring to the fact that you owe her a favor, Grimmjow." Ulquiorra sipped his tea. "Surely you would feel a need to look after her?"

Grimmjow forced his jaw to relax enough to answer. "Not really, no."

Nnoitra leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "_I'd_ look at her."

"He said 'look _after_.'"

"Hell, I'd do that, too. _Afterwards_." He winked and licked his teeth. "You know?"

Grimmjow shook his head in disgust, but caught himself before saying anything. The middle of a meeting was not the best time or place to get into it with the others. And to be honest, what Nnoitra did to the woman didn't concern him one bit, as long as she was intact enough to be of use. It might even keep her fearful enough to be docile. Docile was good in a prisoner, even if it was boring.

"I see." Aizen motioned for the projector, and the West wing's layout sprang up from the center of the table with all the occupied rooms numbered according to Espada ranking. "At the moment, Inoue Orihime is being kept in something of a closet in Tres Sciflas. I'll have her moved here later this evening." The room nearest where the wing met the main building lit up momentarily, and then faded back to an outline.

"But, Aizen-sama," Nnoitra began, "there's an empty room right by mine at the end of the hall. If she stayed there... um, well, if she tried to escape she'd have to get by all of us first. Doesn't it make sense to put her in the very end of the hall so she can't sneak off?"

Aizen smiled and waved a hand. The projector shifted off. "She'll be placed at the junction of the West wing and the central tower, just as I displayed. Nnoitra, you are not to approach her or loiter near her door. You are all dismissed."

Grimmjow joined the flow of Espada out of the meeting room, mildly amused by Nnoitra's grumbling. He'd known all along that Aizen had already made the decision. The meeting was just another way to waste time and get them jumping through hoops. He watched Ulquiorra and Nnoitra walk off toward the West wing, Nnoitra arguing that he was just looking out for the betterment of the whole and not at all interested in anything inappropriate. Grimmjow looked forward to the much quieter East wing.

"Will you be further decorating tonight, Grimmjow?"

"Oh, fuck off, Pink. I told you, I'm just clearing out the trash that bastard left."

Szayel quirked an eyebrow up at him and grinned. "I thought you'd love what he did with the place. The lamps and everything."

"Maybe _you _would. _I_ happen to like it when things don't reek of rotten fruit, myself. And the pink?" Grimmjow shook his head. "That little shit should have died a harder death."

Szayel chuckled and split off to go work in his lab down an adjoining corridor, leaving Grimmjow to approach his room alone. The smell was greatly diminished--still there, but nothing more than an undercurrent that probably most people wouldn't pick up on. Notably missing from the scene was the pile of broken tables and candles outside and the smears on the wall. Grimmjow made a mental note to get the name of the Número who did it. It paid to know which ones were the good servants.

A quick glance inside revealed that the Número had gone further than expected. A set of regulation cotton sheets were folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and the lamp he'd had in there originally was back, as was the large table he'd had. The girly, jewel-studded lamps Luppi'd brought in to put on his stupid, tiny wooden tables were nowhere to be found. As much as he was going to miss breaking the lamps and adding the pieces to the shattered tables, he was highly pleased that the carpets were gone and his furniture was back. What was more, the counters were cleaned in the bathroom, and the little bowl he'd kept in the corner was both back in the corner and filled with water. Definitely, he'd be getting the Número's name. He might even go to the effort to make sure the lesser arrancar was promoted somehow.

All of Luppi that was left, in fact, were the white satin sheets and lacy pillows. Even those looked somehow crisp, like they'd been changed out for a clean set. He wasn't sure why the Número had gone to the trouble of changing sheets only to put on a matching satin set. It would have made more sense to just get rid of _all _of Luppi, instead of leaving a vestigial amount. Grimmjow shut the door and stared at the bed, his arms--both of them, he congratulated himself--folded over his chest. He still had a headache, but the room was bearable now and at least wouldn't make things worse overnight. He guessed it would probably take two days at the most before the strays figured out there was water to be had here and came back. Then everything would be normal again except those sheets.

There was no way in hell he was sleeping on lace, but the effort of removing one set of sheets and putting on another was starting to seem unreasonable after a day filled with fighting, healing, the Great Purge, and a long, boring meeting. He tossed the pillows onto the floor, ridding himself of the lace dilemma. Now there was just the increasingly daunting task of clambering around with armfuls of bedding. He sighed. Fuck it. A night on the satin sheets wouldn't kill him. The lace was gone. That'd be enough for now. He kicked off his boots and let himself fall back onto his bed. The room was his. His arm was his. His rank was his.

And damn if he didn't owe that woman a favor.

He turned over and stretched. _Okay_, he thought. _Actually, these are pretty nice_. They were slick, they held heat but not too much, they didn't cling, and for some reason, they smelled clean enough to cancel out the lingering scent from the rest of the room. It was just too bad the pillows had that lace problem. Grimmjow buried his face in the sheets and swallowed the purr that tried to slip out. It was decided. He'd keep these. And that Número was getting a promotion.

* * *

Omake:

Grimmjow rolled his head back and forth, trying to work the soreness out of his shoulders. It was bad enough this stupid fever wouldn't go away, but now he had to supervise the construction outside where the fighting had ruined several buildings. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling Aizen was giving the task to him to get back at him for being the cause of a lot of that destruction. It wasn't his fault. The damn kid had wanted to take it elsewhere. And Ulquiorra had broken his fair share of buildings, too. That didn't get _him _out in the heat watching a bunch of Números look at a blueprint upside down.

"No, you fuckers!" he shouted. "You had it right the first time. Turn it around. The squiggle goes up at the top!" He sighed in irritation, and then burst out coughing. Damn that contagious shinigami. Damn this heat. Damn these losers who couldn't figure out a blueprint.

"Look!" one of them called, pointing. "It's a bird."

"Kill it!"

"I got it, I got it! Watch me!"

"Hey, no fair! I'll get it!"

"Watch where you're aiming, bastard!"

Grimmjow looked where they were firing off balas, and saw a bedraggled nest amidst the barrage of red light. Fuck. It was just his luck that they'd notice the damn thing. "Hey, knock it off! Get your asses building or Aizen-sama will be short a few arrancar."

"Yes, sir, Grimmjow-sama!" they chirped in unison.

He watched them long enough to be sure they were working again, and then snuck a glance at the nest out of the corner of an eye. There were a few charred twigs up there, and a pile of singed feathers on the ground below, but no sign of a surviving bird. At least one bala had connected, possibly more. Either way, the nest was gone, and the birds with it. This did not bode well for the next meeting, and he hadn't even gotten to blast them himself.

* * *

Okay. Next time, I'll either have conquered the Nnoitra voice or I'll just find some other way to add it while I move on. I tried it out at the end of this chapter, and it seemed not as bad as it had been, but I'm still not happy with it. And at some point, I need to write a new chapter for Revolution. It's been about a year on that piece, and I can't neglect it any further. Also, I will hopefully be able to keep everything clear with the flashbacks, omakes, and regularly timelined chapters... if not, tell me so I can fix.


	7. Numobacteria

Disclaimer: I don't own the people, places, or situations. I don't own the back story. I don't own the Bleach universe. Go sue someone who has money, okay?

Mini-Summary: Yes, Grimmjow's sick. Yes, Szayel is having a hard time in his pseudo-job as healer. But the others are affected, too, right? What about the other Espada? What about, say, Nnoitra?

Notes: I don't feel all that confident with his voice in this, but here's Nnoitra. I ended up changing nearly half of the dialogue in this first section. I still find him to be a touch out of character, but... whatever. I've sat on this chapter long enough.

* * *

Nnoitra paused beside the door and cast a quick glance down the hallway. Empty. No Halibel to silently scold him for being a pest. More importantly, no Stark with his oh-so-humorous spoon comments. If that sleepy-ass bastard weren't too lazy to meet a challenge... He sneered. All the strong ones were cowards around here, except him.

Szayel--more freak than coward in his book, though certainly a coward as well--was still rubbing elbows with Shorty over the stovetop back in the kitchen. Something about honey, nausea, and plain food. Nnoitra hadn't been interested, and would have kept walking, but then he'd caught sight of Zomari's note explaining that Jacques was a common French name, and that it made sense that Grimmjow would know some French from when he was alive. Grimmjow, of all people.

Nnoitra made no claim to be an expert on languages, but French, he knew, was "the language of _love_"--whatever that was--and love had something to do with sex. Or so he'd overheard in the park on his last assignment to the land of buxom young women in short, pleated skirts. Sex was something he did consider himself an expert in.

That Grimmjow would be dreaming in French was interesting in and of itself. But the potential for mockery was downright irresistible. Fish pies? Really, and in the language of sex. How could he pass it up? The short answer: he couldn't. And never mind the warnings to stay away from the area or risk becoming ill. He was stronger than Grimmjow or any other Espada, and therefore was immune to whatever it was Szayel had been warning them against. The door opened with a bit of pressure, and Nnoitra slipped in softly, shutting it behind himself.

"What the fuck do you want, Nnoitra?"

"Huh. Din't think y'd be awake, _Jacques_." Nnoitra strolled further into the room as languidly as he could manage, and was rewarded for his efforts when Grimmjow's scowl deepened.

"Don't get too comfortable. You're not staying long." Grimmjow tried unsuccessfully to swallow a cough, and ended up choking on it, much to Nnoitra's amusement. "And who the hell's Jacques?"

Nnoitra licked his teeth and sat down beside his victim. This would be more fun than he'd anticipated. "That'd be you, lover boy." He was both surprised and pleased when Grimmjow's response was more confusion and less irritation. The medicine must really be screwing with him if he didn't immediately take offense at the jibe.

"So how're the ladies in yer dreams, Frenchie? All nude 'n sandy?" That was another thing he'd learned from the real world. There were vast stretches of sand on which women basked without clothing. And there was free admission to these shows, if you could find one.

Grimmjow glared, the expression nearly lost amidst his fevered flush. He pushed himself up to lean against the wall, and growled hoarsely. "I don't speak French. And I don't care what Pink has to say about it."

"Oh, come on. Say something sexy. _Oo__ la la_. Pretend I'm Nel." This was pushing it, he knew. Of the current Espada, only Grimmjow and Stark had been even a little bit close to the green-haired bitch, but this was the East wing, home to both of them.

"Get out," Grimmjow hissed, the murder in his eyes eclipsing the fever momentarily.

Nnoitra blinked. Rumors had it that either Grimmjow or Stark had taken 'close to Neliel' to a new level, but he'd never been able to figure out which one it was. Perhaps this was an indication. A little further prodding seemed in order. "That's not whatcha used ta tell her."

"I'm serious," Grimmjow muttered, batting something away from his face with the back of his hand. "You shouldn't be here."

"Oh, 'cause yer sick?" Nnoitra widened his eye in fake concern before narrowing it again as he went for the kill. "Or 'cause I struck a nerve there?"

The Sexta Espada looked up at him and folded his arms across his chest. "Do you know what bacteria are?"

Nnoitra blinked again, his smile slipping for a moment. If he'd hit that nerve, the volatile Grimmjow wouldn't have been able to let it go, admit defeat, or change the subject. He'd have taken the bait and run with it. Nnoitra hated being wrong. He hated losing even more, and to keep this encounter from being a loss, he had to up the antagonism.

"They're--"

"If that's what's making ya sick an all, then I don't really care," he interrupted. "Just 'cause something can take a weakling like you down doesn't mean it's got a chance against me."

"They're microscopic," Grimmjow continued, his voice getting even raspier. "So small you can't even see 'em."

Nnoitra snorted and rolled his eye. "So?"

Grimmjow smirked weakly. "Your hierro won't protect you if they get in some other way. Like breathing them in or getting them in your eyes." He paused for effect. "Bacteria can get _around _your skin without having to go through it. Your strength doesn't matter."

Nnoitra felt a brief chill run down his spine. It sounded like these bacteria cheated in what should be a straightforward fight. Those were his tactics, and he didn't appreciate them being copied by some little bugs from the real world. He was beginning to feel a touch uncomfortable in the Sexta Espada's room. Like he should be planning an escape route or something.

Of course, this was all assuming Grimmjow wasn't lying to him to get him to leave. The Sexta Espada was known to be ruthless in protecting his alone time. Nnoitra remembered when Ilforte had been the most clingy of anyone's fraccion, before Grimmjow had cut his hair off at the mask. While the hair had grown back eventually, the fifteenth arrancar had given Grimmjow a lot more space afterward.

"And if they did get in," Grimmjow said, resuming his description, "they'd eat away at your strength and your hierro would crumble from the inside."

"There's no way yer that contagious, _Jacques_." Nnoitra didn't often use logic, but this seemed like a good time for it. In the face of what was surely a bluff, a bit of logic could give him victory. "I can see how the pink freak would be immune, but Aizen wouldn't've let you sit at the meeting if the rest of us could get sick just breathing around ya."

Grimmjow grinned up at him. "Guess you're too cowardly to test that out, then, huh?" he challenged.

Nnoitra's patience all but evaporated at the taunt. "I'll show you 'testing it out,' you little fucker!" Nnoitra growled. He leaned over right into Grimmjow's face, trying to ignore the inner voice telling him that something was wrong, that there was in fact the possibility that he could get sick, could be reduced to a wheezing lump at the meeting table. No one called him a coward and got away with it. He was the strongest of all the arrancar, and these numo-whatevers were nothing to him. There was simply no way this sickness could be that easy to catch, no matter how devastating it was once caught.

"Aizen'd never send Halibel to put you to bed if just breathing close to you could get her sick," he sneered, pushing that scared little voice further into the background. He was stronger than that. Practically invincible. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"I know you're always focusing a bit further down on her uniform," Grimmjow began, closing the distance between them until Nnoitra could feel the breath on his face. "But even you must have realized that her collar effectively covers her _nose and mouth_." He spat without warning, sending a gob of thick saliva flying the short distance into Nnoitra's eye.

"Gyah!" He recoiled, clapping a hand to his eye. "What the fuck!" Nnoitra smeared mucus and spittle across his face in his attempts to clean his eye out. "I oughta--"

"Eyes aren't protected by hierro, Nnoitra." Grimmjow wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and doubled over with a brief coughing fit. "The pneumonia bacteria are in there now, and they're going to eat your brain!"

The outrage boiling within him slowly turned into horrified realization. Close proximity. Getting bacteria inside him. Skipping the hierro armor and moving straight for the kill. His heart picked up its tempo and his breathing caught up. The bastard had set him up. Damn it. Damn it!

Nnoitra turned and left the room without a word, maintaining a calm façade in front of his enemy, but moving as quickly as he could nevertheless. He had to find some water. He had to wash this out, get rid of the numo-bacteria before they had a chance to start growing. He'd worked too hard to get this far up the chain, damn it, and his efforts weren't going to waste if he could help it.

Fucking Grimmjow could be dealt with later, when Nnoitra was sure he was safe from tiny, crippling bugs from the real world. Damn it all, Aizen would be hearing about this.

* * *

Szayel suspected trouble when he caught Nnoitra skulking near the kitchen door, but he had no choice but to remain by Ulquiorra's side as the shorter arrancar prepared a pot of rice--as plain a pot of rice as possible because Grimmjow had been spot on about the egg dish and every creation Ulquiorra had attempted since. This was the second pot of rice. When Szayel had last turned his back on the process, Ulquiorra had added shredded parsnip and horseradish to the rice. That batch had ended up on the prisoner's tray.

The theme for the day seemed to be white, and the prisoner's meal was to consist of the botched rice, skinless potato halves, milk, and something in a covered dish that emitted onion-scented steam. Szayel debated telling Grimmjow he'd been right about Ulquiorra's cooking strategy, but then decided the Sexta Espada was already smug enough. A motion to his side brought his mind back to the present task, and he put a hand out in time to stop a cutting board of minced garlic from being dumped into the rice pot.

"Whoa. _Plain_, Ulquiorra." Szayel snatched the cutting board away and put it to the side. "Anything else and he won't keep it down."

Ulquiorra stared at him, the eyes somehow dangerous, despite being even more expressionless than usual. "It _is_ plain. Every meal I cook is plain."

Szayel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's _white_, yes. But plain is more than solid colors. Just... just the rice in the water, okay?"

"Very well." Ulquiorra handed the spoon to him and began setting dishes on the cart. "Make your plain rice, then."

Szayel watched him wheel the cart out of the kitchen and blinked. He'd never cooked before. For that matter, he'd never eaten rice. How did one know when rice was done? The pot bubbled away, oblivious to his quandary. _Well_, he thought, _as long as it isn't crunchy, it must be done_. Just to be safe, he left it on the stove another half hour before ladling the resulting mush into a bowl.

Bowl in hand, he rounded the corner to the East wing, and was promptly slammed against the wall by a lanky, jingling shape clutching at its face and screaming about water and something inside its head eating its brain. Szayel recovered himself and stared at Nnoitra's retreating figure as the taller Espada narrowly missed hitting a door jamb in his rush to the kitchen.

"What's with the noise?" Stark complained, poking his head out into the hallway. "Was that Nnoitra?" He yawned. "I told that dumb fuck to stay away."

Szayel got to his feet, relieved to find his rice miraculously clinging to the sides of the bowl. "I believe you insulted his uniform with a silverware comment. That doesn't exactly constitute a warning to stay out of this wing."

"Huh. Oh well. I'm sleeping in here, so try to keep the screaming to a minimum today, okay?" The door shut, leaving Szayel alone in the hallway with his rice.

Sleeping. Szayel could remember what that was like, vaguely. He recalled it was nice, but hadn't experienced it since the cough syrup disaster. Sighing, he opened Grimmjow's door and mentally prepared for the seventh day of hell.

"We're not done with this yet?" Grimmjow groaned, his eyes glassy and bright.

Szayel sat down and looked over at his patient. Feverish, yes, but also lucid, which was a plus and an increasing rarity. "No." He decided not to tell Grimmjow just how far from done they were. Instead, he motioned toward the door. "What did you say to him?"

"Nnoitra?" He shrugged. "Nothing much. Just some shit to get him out of here."

"Hmm." Szayel wondered whether he was better off not knowing what the two had talked about, but discarded that train of thought when Grimmjow made a pass at the air in front of him. "See something?"

Grimmjow grunted, rubbing at his eyes.

"Here," Szayel said, pushing the bowl across the nightstand. He'd discovered it was better not to acknowledge the hallucinations unless Grimmjow was upset by them, in which case calming measures were in order. "I made you some rice to go with your medicine."

The Sexta Espada peered blearily at the rice, and blinked. "That's not rice."

"Sure it is."

Grimmjow shook his head. "I know I'm not at one hundred percent, but I know rice when I see it. _That _would be called glue."

The insult to his cooking actually stung harder than he'd anticipated. Ulquiorra's reaction to his earlier critique made more sense now. "It's not crunchy," he replied, cringing inside at the pathetically defensive tone that had slipped out.

Grimmjow merely looked at him. The expression, despite the slight hint of delirium, managed to contain every bit as much contempt as the painted twelfth squad captain had shown him. Szayel found himself suddenly quite glad that his fellow Espada was ill.

And then Grimmjow's attention shifted to the left and followed an invisible speck as it traced some pattern in the air, and Szayel had to bite back a smirk as his patient swiped a hand at it. At their worst, the hallucinations had Grimmjow clutching for purchase as the room spun or beating off angry, armored seafood that came through the wall for him. But the milder episodes were sometimes quite amusing.

Szayel found himself on the floor seeing his own bright specks of light before he even registered the impact of an open-handed bitch slap against the side of his head. He looked up at Grimmjow and gingerly rubbed his hollow mask. "What was that for?!"

"You had a bug on you," Grimmjow rasped angrily. "Big pink butterfly. Probably a relative."

Szayel narrowed his eyes, but didn't have time to reply.

"Seriously?" Grimmjow continued. "Stop laughing at me. I'm not having fun here."

"Neither am I." Szayel picked himself up off the floor and settled back into the chair, still feeling at his hollow mask for hairline fractures. No wonder Stark had been so upset about the chipped tooth. That hurt so bad he had to blink tears away. "Just take the medicine, eat this shitty _glue _I made for you, and go back to sleep!" he snapped. "I'll wake you up when you start speaking French."

"For the last time," Grimmjow growled. "I do _not _speak French!"

"Right," Szayel snarked over his patient's coughing. "You don't speak French the way you didn't lose to that fifteen year old shinigami substitute." He didn't know why he was going down this road, but it seemed like something Grimmjow deserved after snubbing his food.

Grimmjow cleared the last of the coughing from his throat and glowered back at him. "I won two out of three, and I would have won the..." he trailed off with a glare as he noticed Szayel's quirked eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Grimmjow began again with a sneer. "Who got his ass handed to him by the captain with the bloated, baby-headed, golden _caterpillar _for a bankai? Was that you?"

That stung worse than the blow to his hollow mask. Szayel folded his arms defensively across his chest and fought back a pout. "Point taken. Shut up."

"Just making sure," Grimmjow gasped, "because the way you're going on, you must have come out on top of that one." Insult delivered, Grimmjow slumped back against the wall, clearly running out of steam.

"At the very least," Szayel ground out, "I didn't get hacked down from behind by an ally."

Grimmjow blinked weakly at him from a nest of pillows. "You stood there," he murmured hoarsely, "watching your enemy attack you... in _slow motion_."

Szayel stood, scowling down at his patient. Sick or not, the bastard was downright mean. He decided to use his only trump card. "I don't have to keep giving you this medicine, you know. I could let you get worse, and then it would take an even nastier medicine to get you well again." He paused to let that sink in. "Or, you could shut the hell up."

The blue eyes shut as Grimmjow let his head droop tiredly to the side. "I'll drop it if you do, Pink."

"...Fine." His anger deflated, Szayel sat back down, unsure which of them had won that battle. "We're agreed to just nurse our respective grudges in private?"

"Give me the damn pill," Grimmjow said, holding his hand out. "When we see those bastards again we'll tag team 'em."

Szayel shook out a pill and carefully wrapped Grimmjow's fingers around it, then watched as the Sexta Espada choked it down without water. "You want the rice? Something to drink?"

At his patient's whispered 'whatever,' Szayel nodded, and reached for the glass of water. It was time to play nursemaid. The lucid spell was probably drawing to a close, but he had a lot to think about in the next seven or so hours as Grimmjow tossed and turned and attempted to strangle himself with the sheets.

Aizen's orders were not to engage in fighting unless provoked, and while it wasn't specifically included, plotting seemed to be highly discouraged as well. Grimmjow possessed more critical thinking skills than most would give him credit for, but it wasn't a match for the captain from hell. That gold-chinned face floated in his vision for a moment. For plotting, Grimmjow had nothing to offer him. But he did have an incredible illness that might be re-engineered as a weapon against shinigami.

It would take perhaps an hour for the newest dose to take its full effect, at which point Szayel would have to be fully alert to watch for worsening symptoms. Until then, Szayel could either curl up in the chair to catch what sleep he could manage or make a quick trip to his lab for some supplies so he could begin designing the chemical structures for his ultimate revenge.

He smiled. It wasn't much of a choice, really.

* * *

Longest Omake Ever: "Blackmail is a Two-Way Street"

Orihime rolled her head to the right, imagining the weight of a jawbone mask on her cheek. She rolled it left, envisioning the much heavier horned mask her usual visitor wore. And forward, pretending to be weighed down by a toothy crown of antlers like the teeny-tiny little arrancar she'd seen birthed the other day. So sweet, almost like Nel.

The hollow masks she had no trouble accepting, but the innocence of that baby arrancar, whispering his name so shyly she couldn't make it out... _that _was giving her loads of trouble. Were they all like that at first? She just couldn't picture grinning Nnoitra without the leer, or stoic Ulquiorra with his eyes full of wonder, or hotheaded Grimmjow meekly letting Aizen stroke his hair.

Whether that was the norm or not, she was glad she'd seen it. It gave her a little bit of hope, after all. No one had acted as though this was at all odd, so there was a chance that each of them had started out this way, and that they could maybe get a little of that back.

If she was invited to see another birth, she thought she might bring a towel with her, though. Something for the little arrancar's modesty. To begin life in Las Noches naked, on one's knees, and in front of a crowd of hardened peers was just not right. Orihime felt her cheeks grow hot at the vision of little baby Ulquiorra and little baby Grimmjow sitting there in their birthday suits. Maybe playing with little baby birds. Ducklings, perhaps. In a bathtub... with bubbles.

"Awwww, how cute!" she cooed. Her eyes widened suddenly. "Oh no!" she yelped, slapping her hands over her eyes and shaking her head. "No, no, no, no, no!" That was an image and a reaction that could only get her in trouble if anyone found out, and she tried desperately to unsee it.

A scuffle by the door helped immensely with this effort, and she sat up straight and schooled her expression into something she hoped came across as neutral. It seemed a bit early for dinner, but time was hard to judge here.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Grimmjow asked, shutting the door behind him.

The blush returned ten-fold, and Orihime waved her arms in front of her. "N-nothing!" She couldn't keep back a set of nervous giggles. "I'm not seeing anything." She tucked her head down and tried to avoid looking up at him.

"...What?"

"Never mind!" she chirped. He could _not _know. She would die if he did. Either of embarrassment, or of some action on his part. Maybe a hand through her torso. He seemed fond of that technique.

Grimmjow stood there silently for a moment, then took several steps forward until he stood squarely in front of her. "Whatever. Look, your birds are dead, and I didn't do it."

She looked up at that, but stopped short of his face. He was holding something white and furry that squirmed so desperately in his arms she had trouble making out what it was exactly. "Dead?"

He grunted. "Here's a cat." He dropped the struggling lump of fur and cleared his throat.

It looked painful, but she knew better than to say anything. She'd mentioned his coughing on the way back last time, and he had looked as though he wanted to push her through a wall. "A cat?"

"Hollow cat, yeah. Got a mask and everything." He took a few steps to the side and settled stiffly onto the far side of her couch.

Despite wanting very much to know what was wrong with him, Orihime focused on the cat. It was all fur and bones, it looked like. She'd never seen a cat look so starved. Its mask, a bony frill extending over the top of its head from nose past neck, was almost like a triceratops, without the horns. The scrawny animal cowered just on the other side of Grimmjow's legs, looking up at her with fearful yellow eyes.

"He's... cute," she volunteered, not sure what her reaction was supposed to be. At the very least, she was sure the cat was more afraid of her than she could be of it. "Does he have a name?"

Grimmjow scoffed. "Fuck no. It's just some stupid, four-legged thing I found." He reached down and scooped the cat up, plopping it down on the couch between them and holding it there with a hand on its neck while it shivered. "What's it need a name for, anyway?"

She shrugged, then reached over slowly to stroke the cat's head. The hollow mask was warm, and smoother than it looked. "He's scared, Grimmjow."

"Of course it is. It's in Las Noches. We hunt these things for sport when they get in the buildings."

"You _don't!_" Orihime exclaimed, horrified. "That's so mean!"

He cleared his throat again and looked over at her, his eyes bright with what she could only assume was a fever. "It's encouraged by Aizen. You were all worried about those birds being pests? Well these _are _pests. They eat Aizen's stupid messenger bugs."

Orihime looked down at the cat again, then reached out and brought it onto her lap. "Well you're not killing this one."

"No shit. That one's for the birds." He got to his feet, and she pretended not to notice that he held onto the couch's arm briefly for support. "Thing needs water. Keep a bowl out for it. Put it in the corner somewhere out of sight. Anyone asks, the cat climbed in through the window."

She watched as he opened the door and looked down the hallway before turning back to her. "I did not give you that cat. Understand?"

"He climbed in through the window," she said. The cat was a pest. Grimmjow would be well within his rights to come back and exterminate it if she told anyone where she'd gotten it. Or about the birds. He'd be following orders. "He's small enough to get through the bars," she elaborated.

"Good."

Orihime stroked the cat gently, willing it to calm down a little. She had a long way to go before the cat was friendly, but at least she had something to do for a while. Maybe if she could help the cat be gentle and nice... It was safer not to have that thought. She looked down at her new pet, and sighed. Grimmjow was wrong about it not needing a name. She'd have to think of something.


	8. Sleep Deprivation

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, me no own, blah, blah, please don't sue me. Blah.

Mini-Summary: In which Ulquiorra discovers Orihime's cat and realizes that going for two weeks without sleep is almost as disastrous to Szayel as a high fever with hallucinogenic medicine is to Grimmjow. Also, soda is tasty, but is it a good idea to randomly drink from abandoned soda cans?

Note: I'm sorry this is so late, you guys. This semester's kicking my ass. No excuses, I know. I'll try better. It's not as humorous, but I did opt for a new point of view this time.

* * *

Sleep Deprivation and the Arrancar Psyche

"I have to eat all this," the woman complained, "and then toast, too?" She looked up from the well-stocked cart. "But I'm not even hungry."

Ulquiorra blinked at her, keeping his expression otherwise still. "The toast is not for you, woman." Occasionally when he was cold towards her, the prisoner quietly shrank in on herself, a reaction he did his best to encourage. Over the past few weeks--after she saw Aizen-sama's newest arrancar born--she'd seemed more lively, however, and his stoic demeanor continued to have an effect opposite to the one he desired.

She sat up eagerly, her eyes wide and her hands clasped to her chest. "Oh! Who's eating toast, then? Can they eat it in here? I'd be more than willing to sha--"

He held up a hand to silence her. "You will be eating alone. When I return, your meal will be finished. That is all."

The woman seemed to wilt a little at that, dropping her eyes and hands as her chest heaved in a sigh. "Can you tell me who's eating toast, at least?"

"It does not concern you. I'll return for your dishes in an hour." He left the cart and turned toward the door, toast in hand, but stopped short at a scuffling sound coming from the woman's couch. Slowly, he turned around. "Who is--"

"Hah, hah!" The woman leapt to her feet and slapped her stomach a few times. "Sounds like I'm hungry after all!" she chirped, breaking into a fit of nervous giggles. "My stomach's just grumbling away, isn't it? Funny how it does that sometimes."

Ulquiorra set the toast back on the cart. "That was not the sound of an empty stomach," he said softly. From the hallway, he had sensed nothing out of the ordinary, no reiatsu that didn't belong, and yet clearly something was amiss. He approached the couch with slow, steady footsteps, waiting for the intruder to panic.

Within three steps, a small blur of white zipped from underneath the couch to hide behind one of the room's chairs. It looked like one of the messenger-eating hollow cats, though he couldn't imagine how one had gotten in the woman's room. Ulquiorra let his eyes narrow slightly and prepared to cero the miserable pest as soon as he had a clear shot. No doubt Aizen-sama would be unappreciative of his efforts if the furniture were to be damaged in the process.

"No!" The woman dove from the couch to snatch up the hollow cat and crush it against her chest. "You can't hurt him, I won't let you!"

"Woman," he began, stepping forward to remove the beast from her arms.

She shook her head and backed away, keeping her grip on the struggling hollow despite its teeth in her arm. "I don't care what you have to say about it. He's my pet. I won't--" The woman squeaked as she came up against a corner and could get no further from him. She looked at him and bit her lip, tears starting to trace along her cheeks. "Please, Ulquiorra."

Ulquiorra studied her for a moment, confused. He thought he could understand her need for friends, if he looked at it logically. No amount of logic, however, explained the woman's attachment to a soulless hollow with nothing to offer in return for this protection. He determined that this was a human issue and therefore beneath him. Whatever the reason for her devotion to the hollow cat, it wouldn't matter beyond when the cat was destroyed. "Give the animal to me, woman."

She shook her head again, heedless of the claws drawing additional pinpricks of blood through the fabric over her arms alongside the semi-circular bite marks. "If anything happens to Frill," she whispered, "I'll... I'll cry inconsolably for a month. I- I won't eat. I won't sleep." Her voice gained in strength as she continued her threats, though her eyes remained tearful and pleading. "I'll wail, and moan, and sob, and beat on the walls, and _scream at the top of my lungs!_"

Ulquiorra blinked, feeling a certain amount of control over the situation slipping away from him. Even level-headed Halibel was suffering from the pneumonia-spawned havoc on the East wing, and the human woman seemed to be threatening to create similar havoc on the West wing should he harm this hollow cat. And there was, of course, Aizen-sama's desire for the prisoner to remain as comfortable as possible within her confinement. "Frill?" he asked, struggling to keep his face from conveying his uncertainty.

"It's his name," the woman said. "I named him for his mask. It's frilly, like yours."

_Like... mine? She thinks my hollow mask is 'frilly?'_ For a moment he wasn't sure how to take that comment, and then he felt a grimace pulling at the corners of his lips. "How did it get into your room, woman?"

She swallowed and looked past him toward the window. "He squeezed in through the bars on my window," she whispered.

"That is a lie."

"No it isn't!" She shook her head so hard that her hair almost hit him in the face. "He did! He came in while I was sleeping and he woke me up. Like Santa Claus, only without the jelly belly and the pipe. And he's a cat without any reindeer."

This was the reason he hated dealing with the prisoner and her conversation. Almost half of what she said on any given day made no sense. Ulquiorra chose to ignore that half and focused on the rest. "The cat cannot fly. It cannot jump high enough to reach your window. There are not enough cracks in the wall for it to have climbed up. I'll ask you again, woman. How did that cat get into this room?"

"Through the window," she maintained. "He came in through the window. I heard the scraping from his mask on the bars, and then he was in here, and so I thought I should give him some water because I don't have any milk, and there aren't any cookies in Las Noches, but he could have rice maybe, even though he didn't bring a bag of presents, and--"

"_Enough_." Ulquiorra held up his hand to silence her. He didn't have time for this. He spun on his heel and started for the door, plucking the toast off the cart as he went. "I'll return in an hour to collect your dishes and to kill that cat, unless Aizen-sama decides otherwise. By then you will have eaten and said your goodbyes."

Ulquiorra closed the door on her shriek--closed it a touch more firmly than usual in fact--and then stood outside a moment listening to her pound on it with those tiny little fists. He knew she was lying about the window. Aizen-sama granted his messengers the ability to manifest portals through the walls of Las Noches, and some hollows had enough power to do so on their own, but this hollow didn't seem nearly strong enough. Someone must have let the cat in through the door.

On his way to the East wing, he began to tick arrancar off the master list, looking for one that might have smuggled in the hollow cat. The only name he came up with was Neliel, but while she'd have done it in a second when she was still here, she _wasn't_ here, and none of the other arrancar were so abysmally kind and soft-minded. Perhaps it was Ichimaru, he mused. As a joke. It seemed vaguely his style to provide a pet and then watch the woman's reaction when it was taken away.

He reached his destination sooner than he'd anticipated, and stared briefly at the six. A few days ago, Szayel had requested that he bring food directly to Grimmjow's room, since it was apparently hard to guess when the Sexta Espada would be either sleeping or lucid enough to be left on his own for a few minutes. These circumstances didn't bode well for the meeting scheduled in a little over an hour.

The last time he'd come, Ulquiorra had been able to observe the hotly debated French rambling. He'd found the juxtaposition of smooth, musical language and Grimmjow's generally harsh and abrasive nature to be disturbing. Through the door, he could make out muffled yelling, and after the fiasco with the woman's cat, he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with whatever would meet him this time.

He opened the door and found that the individual doing the screaming was not the one he'd expected. Grimmjow was quietly persisting in his foreign mutterings, while Szayel stood over him waving one fist and clutching at a handful of pink hair with the other. Ulquiorra almost turned around to go back the way he'd come.

"Parlez espagnol, débile! _Esangnol_!" Szayel's free fist crashed into the wall and his forehead followed it with a thump. The rest came out as half whine, half sob. "For the love of all things scientific, speak so I can fucking understand you, Grimmjow. Espagnol. Parlez it. _Please_."

Ulquiorra cleared his throat as he shut the door behind him. Zommari must have tried to teach Szayel some French phrases, though the effectiveness of this wasn't readily apparent. Szayel seemed not to have heard him, and he quietly moved further into the room to set his toast down on the table next to a bowl mounded over with fist-sized bags of ice. He was about to reannounce his presence when Grimmjow mumbled something about squares.

Szayel pushed back from the wall and bent over his patient. "What isn't square, Grimmjow?" he asked softly, apparently too exhausted to stay angry for long.

"Pi're roun'."

There was a pause, and Ulquiorra could almost hear the Octava Espada thinking.

"Yes," Szayel agreed, nodding as though this made all the sense in the world. "Yes, they are. I've never known a pie that wasn't round." He turned to meet Ulquiorra's eyes and then continued. "Ulquiorra thinks so, too, doesn't he?"

For his part, Ulquiorra kept silent, wondering how the delirium could be contagious where the coughing was not.

"Pi. Not pies," Grimmjow corrected, staring at a point about five feet beyond the ceiling.

Again, Szayel nodded. "Right. Pie are round and so are pies. Go back to sleep. Dream about pastry behaving properly."

Ulquiorra frowned at that. "I believe he's talking about math."

"What?"

"Pi," Ulquiorra said. "The mathematical figure." He'd have thought Szayel would know this, though he wouldn't care to hazard a guess as to how Grimmjow knew.

Szayel stared back at him blankly for a moment, long enough for Ulquiorra to see that the bags under his eyes had bags underneath them. It seemed to click suddenly.

"Oh." Szayel nodded yet again, as though that was the only nonverbal signal left in his repertoire. "Well now a lot of things make sense. Pi. Right," he rambled. "And sum, not some. Okay." A curtain of messy pink hair bobbed back and forth as Szayel continued to nod. "Heh, heh. He's been doing math. Grimmjow's been doing math." Szayel clenched his teeth in a grin. "In French." He started laughing and didn't stop.

Ulquiorra frowned at the Octava Espada and then looked away as Szayel struggled to compose himself. It seemed he might have to amend his report to Aizen-sama so that it included a section on Szayel's fading abilities as caretaker. He'd rather not have to do this, especially as the possibilities for replacement were few and included himself. He'd have to wait and see.

The room was considerably better lit on this visit than it had been on previous ones, and as he glanced around, he could now see that Grimmjow had a surprising number of books, organized according to color. Two whole walls were lined with shelves that reminded him of the binder filled with colored tiles that Ichimaru flipped through when bored.

Ulquiorra looked from the books to their owner. He wondered whether Grimmjow had read any of those books. It didn't seem likely, but then, neither did the French. Grimmjow tossed to the side then, and Ulquiorra paused his thought process to focus his attention on the deep scratches around the jawbone mask. One of them cut into Grimmjow's bottom eyelid parallel to a gash down his temple. Another seemed to disappear underneath the mask from the corner of his mouth.

He was about to mention this to Szayel when his view was obscured briefly by the newly calmed Octava reaching over to press a gloveless hand against Grimmjow's forehead.

"Well damn," Szayel muttered hoarsely before turning to pluck an icepack from the bowl on the table. "Just when I think it's going to stay down." He settled the pack against Grimmjow's forehead with one hand and used the other to fend off Grimmjow's attempts to remove it. "Oh, just stop fighting me, stupid. Your brain's going to melt in there."

Ulquiorra pulled up a chair and sat. He hadn't originally planned on staying long, but now there was a definite need for observation, and at least one conversation that would have to take place before the meeting, one that would require a cautious approach. "I don't think he knows he's fighting you, Szayel."

"That doesn't make it any less irritating. Hand me another, would you?" He took the second icepack and jammed it in the crook between Grimmjow's shoulder and neck. "Once I get him cooled down again, he'll drift off to nightmare land and I can rest for a while."

A few minutes later, Szayel took a deep breath and sank into the chair closest the bed. "So. Tell me something I couldn't possibly know. Something that doesn't involve medicine or fevers or--"

"She has a cat," Ulquiorra interrupted. Mentioning the bruises on Grimmjow's wrists and the gouges on his face could wait a while, he figured. He'd get around to that part in a bit.

Szayel frowned, reached for an icepack to settle onto his own forehead. "Who does?" he asked. "The prisoner?"

"Yes." He watched as Szayel moved the ice from his forehead to his cheek to the back of his neck. "She says it climbed in through the window. I don't know how long it's been there. I only saw it today."

Szayel looked at him. "Well you killed it, didn't you?"

"I'm waiting for my orders on the issue."

"Your orders?" Szayel's voice was hoarse, and almost broke on the question. "Policy is to kill them," he continued. "What's there to wait for?"

Ulquiorra sighed. "She says she'll cry inconsolably for a month if the cat is harmed in any way." And there was yet another thing bothering him today, in more ways than one. He wondered whether it was possible to get an extended leave from Las Noches. Perhaps a lengthy assignment, like the one Halibel was on.

Szayel shrugged. "So let her cry."

"She's stationed on my wing, remember?" Ulquiorra looked down at Grimmjow, who was quiet enough to be asleep but frowning too much to be enjoying it. "Inconsolable sobbing is, I'm sure, very similar to uncontrollable coughing."

"Good point," Szayel said. "You think Aizen-sama will let her keep it?"

And wasn't that one of the questions of the day? It would certainly be easier if the hollow cat was allowed to live, but he'd get no small amount of pleasure out of killing it, if only because of what the woman had decided to call it. "She's named it Frill," he muttered.

"Frill?"

Ulquiorra shook his head rather than explain the irritating story behind the name.

Szayel didn't press for an answer, and instead reached forward to slap Grimmjow's hand away from the ice packs. "Leave them alone. They're good for you." He added a third.

"That's quite a fever, Szayel." Ulquiorra sat forward in his chair. "Have you considered putting him in an ice bath?"

"I've considered drowning him in one," he muttered darkly before shaking his head with a sigh. "I've got fraccion fetching ice every two hours, Ulquiorra. But I'm afraid too much cold all at once will only make things worse."

This seemed as good a time as any, and Ulquiorra decided to broach the subject at the forefront of his mind. "There are bruises on his wrists."

Szayel sighed again, and pinched the bridge of his mask. "He's been trying to tear off his hollow mask. Last night I was afraid he'd finally succeed. It's been an off and on thing all day today." He dropped the ice pack into the bowl and the ice split open with a pop. "It just isn't as simple as imaginary external objects attacking anymore. Now I've got to make sure he doesn't attack himself."

Ulquiorra eyed the deep scratches and bruises. Given the angles, the evidence fit Szayel's explanation perfectly. The Octava seemed to be handling the latest issues well enough that there wouldn't be any need to report this, or to have him replaced for the remainder of the recovery process. Doubtless, this news would only upset Grimmjow's current caretaker. Still, he found himself curious about the whole thing. "And if he had succeeded?"

"It's not pretty," Szayel said. "I've..." he glanced to the left and shifted nervously in his seat. "I've seen the results previously."

"You would be referring to Nel's fraccion?"

He nodded. "I wouldn't have gotten off with a scolding if anyone had actually seen them before we dragged them all off into the desert. If we had access to those two, I'd love to do a follow up study on the long term effects of forcible removal of the entire hollow mask."

Ulquiorra wondered briefly what sort of hallucination would make Grimmjow want to remove the remainder of his jawbone mask, but decided he wasn't curious enough to ponder it for long.

"Szayel," he said, getting to his feet. "The meeting is in thirty minutes. Do you require anything before that time?"

"No." Szayel rubbed his eyes through his mask and leaned back in his chair. "I'm holding off on this evening's dose until afterwards so I can keep an eye on the side effects. I'll add more ice and have three of my more expendable fraccion watch him while I'm gone."

Ulquiorra stared at him. "Exactly three?"

"If Grimmjow wakes up singularly unhappy, there will be one to get killed, one to come get me from the meeting, and a third to watch my patient from a safe distance until I can get here." He stretched. "I've been planning my way around this meeting all day."

Ulquiorra nodded. "Very well. I will see you in half an hour."

"Yeah. Thanks for the toast."

Ulquiorra pretended not to hear him as the door shut.

* * *

OMAKE: It's like a wine tasting, without the cheese.

Earlier in the week...

Ulquiorra surveyed the abandoned park, making a note of the aluminum containers littering the ground and benches. There appeared to be more than usual this evening. Possibly a number of them would still have the fizzy liquid inside. Given the utter boredom that an espionage assignment to Karakura held these days, he'd found that sampling the random leftovers of human activity was a relatively entertaining way to pass the time.

In the back of his mind, he monitored the locations and strengths of the various individuals Aizen-sama was keeping track of. No appreciable change, especially in that one. The substitute shinigami seemed to have hit a plateau in his progress and hadn't advanced in over a month. Ulquiorra didn't find this at all surprising.

A breeze rolled one of the cans at his feet against another with a soft clink. He stooped to pick both up and deposited them in a nearby bin designed to hold trash. On the picnic table to his right, another can was knocked over in the wind and clattered off the table. Its partner still stood, which meant it was at least half full and therefore worth investigating.

He sat on the bench, careful not to catch his uniform on the rough wood, and took a sip. It was still fizzy, more powerfully so than many of the others had been. It was also a dark brown, where the others had all been clear. There was likely a correlation between the decorations on the can and the contents within, but it didn't seem like something to waste his time on. He held the can up to his lips again and took a longer swallow.

Hm. Still sickly sweet, but not citrus-flavored. This was more robust, with a hint of something he didn't recognize. It made him feel... perky, almost. That seemed to be the right word. More awake than before, like the strong tea they'd had at the meeting while sorting through the bags of trash Szayel and Grimmjow had purchased from the human world.

He felt he should point this out to Stark when he returned so that maybe the other Espada could remain awake for his shifts here. Another five gulps saw the end of the drink, and Ulquiorra got up to seek out another.

Stark hadn't been scheduled to come back to the park since he fell asleep on the bench that once and got sick in the rain. Ulquiorra wasn't sure whether that arrangement was a coincidence or an attempt by Aizen-sama to keep Stark from being sick again.

It would help if he knew exactly how Stark had gotten sick in the first place. Or how one got sick in general. He'd been rained on here, and had not seen any ill effects except the discomfort of clinging, rain-heavy garments. Grimmjow had been here without rain and had started coughing what seemed like the next day. Others had been here several times in various weather without consequence.

Ulquiorra mentally judged the time he had remaining until dawn. Two more hours, approximately. That was time at least to scour the park for more of the brown liquid. With luck, he'd find another can that was nearly full.


	9. Secrets

Disclaimer: As per usual, I don't own anything.

Summary: So Szayel may need a break from watching his patient...but who would be up to the task? And what dark secret is Aizen hiding?

Notes: Some parts of this may be cringe-inducing. I apologize in advance.

And this is way long for a chapter of Thirteen. I thought about cutting the omake and using it later, but I left it in. It'll be like the extra long Christmas edition or something.

* * *

Secrets

Szayel slowly paced the length of Grimmjow's room, waiting less patiently than usual for his fraccion to return for their stint at patient care. At the end of each leg of his pointless journey, he took a sip from the latest bottle of homemade Pepto Bismol and carefully rearranged his footing to avoid a graceless spill onto the floor. Certainly, Grimmjow was too far gone to notice if he fell--and wouldn't have much room to mock anyway-- but the notion that he was tired enough to trip over nothing kept Szayel careful.

"Szayel Aporro-sama! Szayel Ap--"

"Shush!" he hissed, cutting off the chorus before it could really get started. "Whisper, damn you."

As thankful as he was that they'd finally arrived--and with the ice he'd requested, too--he wished he could find a way to program them to be silent unless called on. At this rate, they'd wake Grimmjow so soon that he'd come back from the meeting to see three grease spots on the ceiling instead of fraccion.

"Szayel Aporro-sama," Lumina and Veruna chanted softly, still jumping so that the ice in their bowls was tossed into the air before landing again with a clatter. "Szayel Aporro-sama. Sza--"

"What?" Szayel clenched a fist, and then released it.

"We're back," Lumina said.

"We brought ice," Veruna said.

Szayel closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. He capped the bottle and set it on the shelf beside the fresh ones waiting for him. "Yes, I can see that. Put the ice on that table." He waited for them to comply and then face him, joined by his newest and hopefully more intelligent fraccion that he'd not gotten around to naming yet.

"Okay. You two," he said, pointing at the two rounder ones. "What is your job in here?"

They replied in tandem. "Stand here and watch the Sexta Espada."

"And?" It was very important they remember the other part, or this peaceful spell wouldn't last long.

"Put ice on him every thirty minutes," they said.

Szayel nodded. "Good." He ignored their squeaky giggle and the high-five they exchanged, and turned toward the third. "And you?"

The nameless fraccion pointed to the back wall, the farthest from Grimmjow one could get without leaving the room. "Wait back there. If he gets upset, send the survivor to get you."

"And?" He found himself more and more impressed with this fraccion. The intelligence level was higher than he'd estimated on creation, very nearly at the normal range for hollows.

"And keep watching from a safe distance."

Szayel smiled, and motioned for the dancing fools to pay attention again. "Where will I be?"

"Drinking tea!"

"Having fun!"

The third fraccion sighed. "Szayel Aporro-sama will be at the meeting hall, at the end of the corridor across from Aizen-sama's throne room."

Well. If nothing else, this one would keep the other two in line. There was, perhaps, a chance that this wouldn't be a complete disaster. He nodded again, and turned to leave before they could raise some stupid question.

"Szayel Aporro-sama!" Lumina called.

"Not so loud," Szayel snarled back, glancing fearfully at Grimmjow, who thankfully didn't stir. "What?"

The round little fraccion clutched his bony hands together and looked up at him, his eyebrows knitted together in worry. "Am... am I going to die?"

Szayel sighed, and pinched the bridge of his mask. "Maybe," he muttered. "It won't hurt a bit. In fact, it's good for you."

"Yea!" he cheered, jumping from one foot to the other. "I get to die! I get to die!"

Veruna pushed him aside and began wailing. "But I want to die! No fair!"

"Shut up!" Szayel shrieked, forgetting about Grimmjow entirely and just barely resisting the urge to give them both what they wanted right now. "If either one of you dies, I'll kill the other one when I get back. How's that sound for fair?"

They looked at each other for a moment, and then nodded, playing patty-cake as they galloped around his patient, who was now sleeping more fitfully.

Szayel gritted his teeth and made for the door, pulling the last of his caffeine tablets out of his pocket and choking it down dry. "You did this to yourself," he muttered. "You did this to yourself. You could have had competent fraccion like Halibel's, or Nnoitra's, or even Stark's. But no, you wanted to be able to eat the damn things..."

"I got a problem, Szayel."

He looked up, jarred out of his self-chastisement. _It never ends_, he thought.

Nnoitra stood at the very edge of what could be called the entryway to the East wing, looking both angry and worried. The visible eye, and all the area around it, was red and puffy, as though he'd been scrubbing at it with a rough cloth.

"What is it?"

"That bastard infected me with 'is numo-bacteria," the taller Espada complained, walking alongside Szayel toward the meeting hall. He rubbed his hands over his temples and groaned. "Feels like I'm dyin'."

"What?"

Nnoitra almost clipped the top of his head as he pointed back the way they'd come. "Grimmjow!" he yelled, his voice shaking with something more than anger. "I was just in there for a few minutes, expressin' my concern fer 'im an' all, 'cause I'm a nice guy, an' he goes an--"

"Concern?" Szayel rolled his eyes. "Don't make me laugh. You wanted to irritate him. Or maybe just poke fun at him while he's so sick he can't fight back. Hell, maybe you were even curious about what it meant to be sick. But 'expressing concern'? No." He shook his head. "Not you."

"That doesn't matter." Nnoitra hunched his shoulders as they passed by the kitchen and were joined by Stark. "I couldn't wash 'em out in time," he continued, his voice low and urgent. "They're in me now--in my head--and you gotta get 'em out again before they eat my brain."

Szayel found himself at a momentary loss and wondered whether Nnoitra was actually making sense and he was just too sleep deprived and caffeinated to understand. "Wait. What's in you?"

Nnoitra exploded again, his arms flailing to the sides in irritation. "The numo-bacteria! Weren't ya listening? An' it's all his fault!" He gestured back again, this time bopping Stark on the head in the process.

Stark scowled and smoothed his hair back into place. "Wouldn't it be your fault for being where you weren't supposed to be?"

"Shut up!" Nnoitra spun to face them, causing them all to stop in the hall as he pointed at his face. "He spat in my eye!"

Szayel wiped spittle from his cheek and sighed. "Nnoitra, pneumonia isn't even contagious."

"What?!"

"That's right," he said. "There's no way you've caught it."

"Then why're we not allowed on the East wing?"

Stark stifled a yawn and scratched the back of his head. "Because Grimmjow needs all the sleep he can get, without people like you antagonizing him." He nudged Nnoitra with his foot. "Get a move on. I don't want to be late."

A few minutes later, Nnoitra turned sideways to look back at them. "But if it's not contagious, then how did he get it in th' first place?"

Szayel shrugged. "He probably had influenza first, and it developed into pneumonia. Influenza, unlike pneumonia, _is_ contagious. Extremely so."

Stark pushed open the door to the meeting room and held it open as the other two entered. "Okay, then why didn't we catch the influza from him?"

"Influenza," Szayel corrected half-heartedly. "I don't know. He kept to himself a lot."

"So I'm not sick?" Nnoitra plunked himself down and traced a finger across the table.

Szayel dropped down into his own chair and looked across at him. "Not from Grimmjow you aren't." Of course, he might very well have caught the flu from being close enough to Grimmjow to be spat at so accurately. But then, Stark hadn't gotten ill, and he'd been playing tag. Or whatever game he'd brought back from the park. Best to hope Nnoitra wasn't sick and watch him just in case. It wasn't like he had enough to keep him occupied lately.

He looked at the otherwise empty room, and estimated the amount of time they had before the meeting started. The caffeine should have kicked in by now, but aside from a few twitching fingers he wasn't any more alert. He settled his head on his arms. "Wake me up when it's time, Stark."

..................

Someone was kicking him. None of his fraccion would dare to do so, and his patient didn't have the wherewithal at the moment. Szayel resolved to ignore the kicking for the time being, but a suddenly sharp blow had him sitting up with a yell. "Ow!"

Nnoitra was grinning at him from across the table. "Aizen-sama's askin' you a question."

"What?" He looked to the right of Nnoitra, saw an empty seat where Halibel should be. In fact, only Ulquiorra and Aaroniero had joined them at the table, leaving the rest of the chairs conspicuously empty. Szayel turned to his left and blinked. It was odd to see Aizen here without the partial obstruction of Zommari's shoulder.

"Welcome to the meeting, Szayel," Aizen asked him, seeming somehow both amused and serene. Szayel began to understand how that was so irritating to Grimmjow. "How is Grimmjow doing?"

"Grimmjow?" He reached over to take a sip of tea, stalling for time so he could wake up fully, but it sloshed over the side as his hand shook. "Sorry, sorry." He set it down again with a thump and tried to mop up the spill with his gloved hand.

"Leave it, Szayel."

"Yes, sir." Szayel took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. He didn't seem to be getting the benefits of the caffeine anymore, though the drawbacks were plentiful at the moment. Perhaps he should take more at a time?

Aizen cleared his throat and smiled at him.

"Right. He's not doing very well, Aizen-sama. The medicine..." Szayel looked around, wondering whether that was the right place to start. He'd had this rehearsed earlier, and it seemed to have evaporated during his little nap.

"If I may, Szayel?" Ulquiorra interrupted. "I was just there, Aizen-sama," he continued, without waiting for permission. "Grimmjow is speaking in French unless asked to do otherwise. His fever is near-constant, and he is rarely lucid. From what I can tell, Grimmjow is also having difficulty with the food he's required to take with his medicine. He seems to have gained an affinity for mathematics, however."

_Oh no_. Szayel glanced across the table at Nnoitra, who wore a grin so large the corner of it disappeared beneath his eye patch, and cringed inwardly. Maybe Ulquiorra would leave out the part about the hollow mask. Nnoitra, at least, didn't need to hear about it. It would only give him ideas.

"I see," Aizen said. He looked from Ulquiorra to Szayel. "And the pneumonia itself?"

Szayel almost didn't register the question for all the relief that flooded him. "Um, he's not coughing anymore," he offered.

Aizen raised an eyebrow at him. "Well that's positive," he murmured. "I'll have to pay him a visit after we're done here."

"What?!" The relief was replaced with panic.

"Have you tried giving him bananas, mashed up?" Aaroniero asked from the end of the table.

Szayel's head swiveled to the right. "Have I what?" _This is a disaster. Aizen can't see Grimmjow like this. He'll punish me for sure._

The Novena Espada continued, unaware of Szayel's predicament. "According to Kaien's memories, that always seemed to work for the Shiba children when they were ill. I'd leave out the rum, though."

"Do we even have bananas?" Szayel asked. Aizen was going to kill him. Demote him. He wasn't sure which was worse.

"We do," Ulquiorra said. "I'll bring them next time."

Nnoitra snickered. "Bring some rum, too. For Pink."

Szayel looked at Nnoitra, and then down at the table. He'd been living off caffeine pills washed down with Pepto Bismol straight from the bottle. The booze might actually be a nutritious improvement. What did he have to lose if Aizen was going to visit the East wing?

"Nnoitra," Aizen chided, before turning back to Szayel. "There should only be a few pills left for him to take, correct?"

He nodded. "Only three, in fact. Then the medicine will fade away over the next week or so." _Leaving Grimmjow an exhausted mess and me dead or demoted_, he thought.

"Good. If no one else has anything to add?" The room was silent. "Very well, then. You're dismissed."

Szayel heard the others get to their feet and shuffle out of the meeting hall, but stared at the tea puddle. No matter how many permutations he considered for what could go wrong in the next hour, he knew he was missing something. He had four more bottles of his lab-made Pepto, and the formula was one he'd memorized while making his third batch. He had a feeling he'd be making more just to survive the next two days.

"Are you ready, Szayel?"

"Y-yes, sir!" He tried to jump to his feet but they didn't cooperate and he ended up stumbling. "Of course. Let's go, then."

They walked in silence quite a ways before Szayel gathered the courage to ask a question that had been bothering him. "Aizen-sama?"

"Hmm?"

"Where was Zommari? And Halibel? And actually, Barrigan, too? I thought Espada weren't allowed to miss a meeting."

"Oh, yes," Aizen said. "That's right. You slept through most of the meeting. Zommari and Barrigan are on assignment out in the desert, and have been for nearly a week. Halibel has been with Yammi, whom you've forgotten, on a brief leave in Karakura. They'll all be returning midday tomorrow. Stark will open the garganta for Halibel and Yammi, since the gigais aren't yet able to do so."

Szayel apologized, confused that Aizen didn't seem to mind his nap.

"You needed the sleep," Aizen said, waving away his apology. "You still need a good deal more of it, in fact."

He wasn't sure what to make of that, and spent the rest of the walk debating in his mind how irate Aizen would be on finding his patient even worse off than before. Granted, it was Grimmjow, who always gave Aizen problems and could rarely be counted on to follow an order, no matter how precise. But Szayel had long since given up trying to second guess Aizen, and there was no telling whether all of Grimmjow's negative attributes would blunt the punishment.

They arrived far too soon for Szayel's comfort, and he realized in a panic that he'd not yet told Aizen about the latest development with Grimmjow's mask and hallucinations, to say nothing of the mess his fraccion might have made in his absence.

He darted forward and stood between Aizen and the door. "Aizen-sama," he started shakily, "you know, he's not exactly sane right now. It might be best for me to go in first, and maybe wake him up--"

"Move." Aizen's glare cut him off mid-sentence.

"Yessir," Szayel said in a rush, flinching as he took a quick side step out of the way. He hoped never to catch that particular expression from Aizen again. It promised terrible things while somehow remaining somewhat mild.

Szayel watched mutely as Aizen pushed open the door and silenced the fraccions' chorus before they'd gotten three syllables out. He followed about three steps behind, expecting the worst at any moment. To his great surprise, the worst didn't make an appearance.

There was a lamp knocked over, and there were puddles on the floor where ice packs had gotten discarded from what was likely a juggling contest. If that was all the damage his fraccion had caused, then things were beginning to look up.

Grimmjow was still asleep, miracle of miracles, and on his stomach no less. He'd have to be turned over for more ice when his fever spiked again, but he wouldn't be able to see as much of the room, which Szayel had found made the hallucinations less severe. In fact, judging from the last few weeks, it was fairly unlikely that Grimmjow would wake up in that position for anything less than a firm shaking. And since it was doubtful that Aizen intended to shake Grimmjow awake, Szayel decided to hang back near the shelf to drink some more of his stomach-calming beverage while Aizen made his inspections.

Aizen paused about three feet from Grimmjow's side, and stared down at the Sexta Espada long enough that Szayel almost though he'd leave satisfied by the superficial examination. Then he took the last couple of steps forward and Szayel realized that the worst was indeed going to make an appearance.

Grimmjow twisted around with a flash of red that shot out from his hand with a cero's strength and a bala's speed, and the bottle of faux Pepto slid to the floor as Szayel's fingers lost their grip. He didn't notice the pink liquid splashing up at him as the bottle shattered, because somewhere in the flurry of movement near his patient, Aizen had caught the blast, drawn his zanpakuto, and called out its release command.

When the after images from the cero/bala combination started to fade from his vision, Szayel could make out Aizen pinning a snarling Grimmjow down with a hand on one wrist and holding Kyoka Suigetsu horizontally across the Sexta Espada's eyes. Grimmjow's free hand gripped Kyoka Suigetsu's crosspiece, and still glowed a faint red that indicated another blast being charged.

Szayel felt a burning sensation deep in his chest, and remembered then that he needed to breathe. His patient and Aizen held their respective positions for a short but tense moment before Grimmjow's hand loosened its grip and dropped, uncharged, to his side. Aizen held the sword there a full minute longer, and then calmly stood straight to sheathe it. One of his sleeves was burned away entirely, and the exposed skin was slightly singed.

His heart thumping somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, Szayel tried to make his mouth form the abject apologies that rattled through his brain, but all that came out was jumbled consonants. He was feeling just a touch miffed that his life didn't have the decency to flash before his eyes when he noticed that Aizen hadn't yet shifted his attention from Grimmjow.

Instead, their leader leaned forward again and gently ran his hand over Grimmjow's eyes to close them, and then traced his finger along one of the gashes on Grimmjow's face. "What happened here, Szayel?" His tone was, on the surface, curious, but it held a deep undercurrent of danger also.

Szayel found that his voice worked again, and made quick use of it. "H-he was trying to tear off his hollow mask, Aizen-sama. I, um, didn't think the rest of the Espada needed to know."

"But you were going to tell me," Aizen murmured, still looking down at Grimmjow.

"Y-yes!" Szayel yelped. "It slipped my mind earlier, but see--" He scrambled to flip through a stack of notes he'd been taking from the beginning. "It's in my notes, right here, see?" He held out the correct page, pointing a tea-stained finger to the lines in question. "I was just going--"

Aizen waved him off without even glancing at the notes. "That's enough. I'm relieving you of this duty until tomorrow morning, Szayel. You're clearly too exhausted to continue without a break."

Szayel stood there looking from Aizen to Grimmjow to his notes. This was, in a way, the very thing he'd been desperately hoping for. Yet it was also the worst possible thing he could imagine at the moment. "But he's... I've still got to... I mean..." He gestured toward the medicine bottle.

"I'll give him tonight's dose and tomorrow morning's. Go to bed, Szayel." Aizen began to move about the room, righting the lamp, straightening the furniture, and opening cupboards to retrieve clean sheets. He looked up once and paused. "That's an order," he reiterated. "I'll take care of this."

"Yes... yes, sir," Szayel mumbled, motioning for his fraccion to follow him out of the room. They were all three silent and wide-eyed, and the four of them stood out in the hallway for a long moment before Szayel thought to direct them to the labs.

After watching them long enough to be sure they were headed in the right direction, Szayel turned to his own room, and pressed the eight to open his door. His bed was immaculate, and there was a fine layer of dust on his tables and shelves. He moved around in a daze, bumping into things on occasion as he undressed and tossed the Pepto- and tea-stained garments in the hamper to be picked up by lesser numeros later.

Szayel lay down on his bed and stared up at his ceiling. Despite being exhausted in all ways that mattered, he had a feeling sleep would be difficult to come by. He kept seeing the bala-cero in his mind, and wondered how his patient had come up with it when he hardly had the energy to swallow his medicine. And for that matter, how was he going to explain to Aizen that Grimmjow was probably just aiming at a hallucination--and that he would never think of attacking their leader--when most of Las Noches knew very well that Grimmjow would love to attack Aizen.

And, and, and. These side effects were supposed to get worse until late tomorrow evening, and then slowly get better again. With energy attacks thrown into the mix, Szayel wasn't sure he'd survive "worse." Still, he didn't have to worry about it until tomorrow. And since he shared a wall with Grimmjow, he'd be able to hear any confrontation during the night that would require his attention.

* * *

He brushed his nose and turned over to fall back asleep, but the intruder wouldn't leave. Now it sat on his ear. Szayel finally sat up, and turned both eyes toward what turned out to be one of the hollow messenger bugs. He felt so refreshed that a little seed of worry started to gnaw at his insides. If he'd slept enough to feel better, the he might have left his patient in Aizen's care for too long.

Szayel kicked both legs over the side and stretched before pulling on a fresh set of clothes. Seeing its job accomplished, the messenger flew out through his wall, and Szayel stood for a moment before allowing the full scale of yesterday's events to catch back up to him. There was a chance, he concluded, that the whole thing had been a massive side effect of too much caffeine. If that was the case, his patient would have been alone for far too long and he had cause to worry. If it was not the case, however, and the visit had happened, then Szayel felt he was still entitled to a healthy amount of anxiety.

He snatched up a bottle of Pepto as a talisman against whichever stressful situation would greet him behind door number six, and ventured in.

His talisman almost slipped from his fingers to join its destroyed brother on Grimmjow's floor when Szayel closed the door behind him. The table was neatly stacked with empty dishes, and the bowl of ice was nowhere to be seen. That could only mean that the fever was gone and that Grimmjow had eaten something. Given Aizen's previous record for getting Grimmjow to do as he was told--however reluctantly--this wasn't terribly shocking. The rest, though...

There was Aizen, sitting on the freshly made bed and leaning up against the wall. There was Grimmjow, curled up on his side with his head in Aizen's lap, a hand loosely clenched in the fabric of Aizen's hakama. Grimmjow's face was bandaged where he'd scratched himself, and his hair was damp--fresh from a bath if the wadded up towel nearby was any indication.

As Szayel watched, stricken dumb by the sight, Aizen's fingers slowly wound though the blue strands, working their way from forehead to nape and flitting over the jawbone mask on their way back up for the repeat stroke. His other hand followed with a little comb, gently picking out any tangles he came across.

Szayel tried to speak, but ended up sounding more like Wonderweiss than anything else. One thing he knew, despite everything bizarre he'd been seeing lately, and that was that there was no way Grimmjow would tolerate someone petting him. And he'd probably go ballistic if that someone were Aizen.

"...how?" he finally managed to choke out.

Aizen looked up from his project, as though there were nothing wrong with the picture. "What's that, Szayel?"

"He's not..." Szayel tried to ignore Aizen's hand smoothing down Grimmjow's hair, and wondered whether he could be having sympathy hallucinations after being around Grimmjow for so long. "He's not crazy. How is...?"

"Ulquiorra suggested an ice bath." His hands never stopping, he nodded towards his zanpakuto, propped against the wall nearby. "And last night, of course, I eliminated certain of the mental side effects."

Szayel blinked at that. He wasn't sure how that was possible, but he could kick himself for not asking earlier, like at the very beginning of this ordeal. That question answered, he was left with only about a hundred more questions and no idea which to ask.

What was going on? Wasn't Aizen busy running Las Noches? Didn't he have somewhere else to be all night, something else to be doing? And how was Grimmjow even still alive after trying to cero Aizen to a crisp? How long had he been asleep, and had he woken up in an alternate dimension? What was Aizen still doing here? And what were his fingers doing petting Grimmjow, and why hadn't they been bitten off for the offense?

He stood there for a minute processing his thoughts and trying to figure out which question needed to be asked, all the while watching Aizen run his fingers over the hollow mask, through the hair, and along an eyebrow that somehow wasn't scrunched up in a frown.

Szayel finally settled on a single word. "Why?"

Aizen smiled briefly and got up, settling Grimmjow back onto the pillows and tucking a corner of the blanket up under his chin. He slid his sword back into his sash and smoothed his hakama before opening the door to leave.

"Despite appearances, Szayel," Aizen said, looking back over his shoulder, "Grimmjow is one of my very favorite Espada."

Szayel stared at the closed door for a long while, his mind racing yet again. He looked back at Grimmjow, and then at the door one last time before tilting his head back and eyeing the ceiling.

"I'm going to need so much therapy when this is over."

* * *

OMAKE: The Most Fragmented Omake Ever: Word Travels Fast in Las Noches

Stark pressed the six and entered the room, careful to shut the door behind him as quietly as possible. All of last night there'd been no screaming, and most of the morning, too. Something was up, and he was tired of wondering whether Szayel had finally snapped and smothered Grimmjow to death with a pillow.

"Hi, Stark," Szayel murmured from his seat.

He sniffed. There was a definite hint of ozone in air, like a cero let loose in close quarters. "Has someone been firing ceros in here?"

"Yes." Szayel didn't look up. "Grimmjow."

Stark looked at the walls, at Szayel, at the floor and ceiling. "There isn't any damage. What was he aiming at?"

"Aizen."

Stark thought about that for a moment. "I think you're bullshitting me."

"I'm not." Szayel offered him a half-empty bottle of something thick and pink. "Want some Pepto?"

"Some what?"

"It calms upset stomachs," he said.

Stark rubbed his stomach and shrugged. "Mine's fine, thanks." He pulled up a seat across the table from Szayel, and glanced over at Grimmjow, who was sound asleep and should have been very dead if Szayel was correct. "Aizen? Really?"

Szayel nodded. "He caught the full blast with his arm. Lost a sleeve." He took a swig of the pink stuff, and swallowed. "I don't know how Grimmjow even got enough energy saved up to fire it." Szayel looked over at him then, meeting his eyes squarely for the first time since he'd entered the room. "Aizen said Grimmjow was one of his very favorite Espada."

"Now I _know_ you're bullshitting me."

"I wish I were."

Stark scratched at his stubble. "That doesn't make any sense. He said that Grimmjow was--"

"One of his favorites," Szayel interrupted.

"...his--"

"Yes," Szayel confirmed.

Stark felt a little quiver reach down into his innards and shake things up. He reached over and snatched the bottle from Szayel's hands. "How much of this do I take?"

Szayel shrugged as though the dose didn't matter. "Oh, a capful."

Stark took two to drown out the unease. "How is that even possible?" He wiped his mouth and passed the bottle back across the table. "Grimmjow hates him."

..................

Tesla frowned up at Apache from his spot hogging the entire length of the sofa and every pillow in the fraccion lounge. "There's no way," he scoffed. "That's gotta be a lie."

"It's not," she insisted irritably, dragging a pillow out from under his head and fluffing it before settling down with it into a nearby chair. "I heard it from Sun-sun, and she got it from Charlotte, who heard it from Circuii. And Circuii was talking to Dordonii, who passed it along from Canterbaine. Canterbaine found out from Lilinet while they were eating in the kitchen, and Lilinet got the news straight from Stark, who heard it while visiting with that freak Szayel, _who was there when it happened._

After about five minutes during which Apache tried to get comfortable in the cement chair with only the one pillow and Tesla attempted to untangle the line of gossip, two things were certain. One pillow was never enough with Las Noches furniture, and he had to get going, pronto.

Tesla sat up and threw a couple more pillows her way. "I'll see you around, Apache."

"You're not staying?"

"Can't!" he called over his shoulder as he raced out. "Nnoitra-sama's going to be pissed!"

..................

"Well that's what Tesla says, but I ain't buyin' it." Nnoitra rotated his mug and glanced around the kitchen table at the others. "Ulquiorra's his favorite Espada of all time, an I can live with that, since he's all obedient an shit. But _that_ fucker!?" He slammed a fist into the table.

Aaroniero nodded. "We agree. If obedience is no longer the requirement, then we should be Aizen-sama's ultimate favorite." He held up two fingers and nodded slightly. "We're twice the Espada he is."

"Yer a freak in a glass tube, an don't forget it." Nnoitra took a sip of his tea. "I'm the strongest," he insisted. "It should be me!"

Halibel rolled her eyes. "Based only on superlatives? By your reasoning, Nnoitra, the favorite could be any of us."

"Yes," Barrigan said, leaning back as though in his throne. "As the oldest and wisest of us--"

"As the most logical," Zommari interrupted, his hands meditatively over his knees.

Nnoitra jumped to his feet, banging the table hard enough to slosh everyone's drinks. "Logic is _crap_, and so is wisdom!" He jabbed a bony finger at himself. "_I'm_--"

"Going to finish your conversation elsewhere, Nnoitra," Ulquiorra interjected smoothly from the doorway. "It is time to prepare the prisoner's evening meal."

They looked at the newcomer, then back at each other, silently debating whether Ulquiorra should be told.

..................

Forty minutes later, Ulquiorra stood in the empty kitchen, stirring a pot of tomato puree with sweet red pepper and paprika, while monitoring the simmering strawberry-red bean mixture on the next burner over.

He still wasn't sure how to deal with the news. _Grimmjow's replaced me?_ A bit of the puree sloshed onto his uniform before he noticed the increased speed of his stirring. "Is this what betrayal feels like?" he asked the smaller pot.

Ulquiorra put the spoon down and took a wet rag to the spot on his uniform. It didn't make sense. There was no physical evidence of this event, and it was highly unusual for Espada to jump two ranks at once. He repeated the list to himself as he rubbed at the spot. "Szayel, Stark, Lilinet, Canterbaine, Dordonii, Circuii, Charlotte, Sun-sun, Apache, Tesla, Nnoitra... that's eleven degrees of removal from the actual words spoken by Aizen-sama."

He glanced down at the stain, and saw that his cleaning attempts had succeeded in enlarging it and turning it from deep red to orangeish-pink. He also noted that its placement over his rank tattoo was singularly unfortunate.

"Perhaps if I see Aizen-sama and ask him about it..." he trailed off, glancing from the stain to the pots on the stove. His mind made up, Ulquiorra turned the heat down to a simmer, put the lids on the pots, and left a note by the stove guaranteeing swift doom to those who tampered with his cooking. The prisoner's dinner could wait until he cleared this up.

..................

Aizen felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as he watched Ulquiorra leave the meeting room with something of a spring in his step despite his ruined uniform. It was a stark contrast to the dejection the Cuarta had dragged himself in with, and over so simple a problem, too.

"I see why _he's_ a favorite, Aizen-sama," Ichimaru murmured from Ulquiorra's usual spot. "But Grimmjow? Say it ain't so!"

Tousen sat forward at his right with a scowl. "Yes. I find this lack of judgment to be appalling."

Aizen shrugged and leaned back. "Where else can one find quality entertainment in Las Noches? It's always something new with Grimmjow, and the unpredictability is refreshing..." He trailed off, running his fingers in circles along the tabletop. "Refreshing and amusing."

Ichimaru grinned at that. "So y'like it when they stand up t'you? So differ'nt from before."

"Mhm," Aizen agreed with a nod. "As long as it's balanced with obedience, I don't see a problem. He'll come around." He pulled a book out from his sleeve and pushed it across the meeting table to Ichimaru. "As soon as he's well again, I can start putting this advice to good use."

"What's this?" Ichimaru frowned at the cover of the book, and read aloud. "Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child: Eliminating Conflict by Establishing Clear, Firm, and Respectful Boundaries...?"

Tousen breathed a long-suffering sigh from his side of the table. "Now you're treating them like children?"

Aizen smiled again and took the book back from his subordinate. "If it works, Kaname, then it works."


	10. Quarantine

Disclaimer: I still don't own anything.

Summary: The medicine has run its course, but with two new sickies on the East wing, Szayel has his hands full. To prevent re-infection during his recovery, Grimmjow gets transferred to the West wing with... Ulquiorra?!

Notes: I got a request for more Grimmjow POV, so here it is. Grimmjow for something like fifteen pages, not including omake. Also, I've come to the "regrettable" conclusion that I will not be able to finish this story in thirteen chapters, rendering the title meaningless. Oh well.

* * *

Quarantine

Grimmjow watched Szayel pace back and forth muttering chemical formulas to himself, and continued his mental debate on the merits of turning over so his back was turned to the scientist-turned-medic. So far, on the reasons why he should, he'd determined that he'd be able to sleep better without the distracting movement and that it might send the "go away" message more clearly than his glare currently was.

On the other hand, he'd have to summon a great deal of energy to turn over. Energy came in short bursts these days, and was something he'd found himself with a limited supply of lately. And it would defeat the purpose entirely if Szayel noticed what he was doing and decided to _help_ him face the other way. For something like the tenth time that day Grimmjow hurled a mental curse at the shinigami responsible for this hell. The shape-shifting bitch would suffer if he ever met her again.

He sighed and tried to intensify the glare he was directing at his unwelcome company. Grimmjow wouldn't go so far as to say things were better when he wasn't aware of Szayel's presence--there'd been scads of unpleasantness to cancel out that one ray of sunshine--but now that he could think clearly and the crazed seafood had gone back to wherever it called home, he just really, really wanted to be alone.

Szayel stopped his pacing for a moment and froze, looking toward the back room. Unlike the other Espada who used their inner rooms as bedrooms, Grimmjow preferred to keep that room largely empty except for the shredded couch he liked to nap on in his released form, and the object hidden behind that couch. There was nothing back there that could have drawn Szayel's attention unless...

And there it was. Poking its head around the corner of the doorway was the littlest member of his modest collection. Why it had decided to show itself now was a mystery. Grimmjow glanced from the masked ball of fuzz to Szayel, and found his fellow Espada looking at him incredulously.

"You know, Grimmjow," he started, moving his hands to his hips, "I always suspected you kept those things in here." The disapproval in his tone was obvious, and touched with exasperation.

The combination stirred up what rebellion Grimmjow still had the energy for. "So? They aren't bothering you." He reached out and grabbed the empty pill canister from his table and weakly tossed it across the room. The little black one held back, but his two grey striped cats launched themselves from the back room to chase the canister as it bounced across the floor.

"Grimmjow, they're--"

"Entertaining, all right?" He folded his arms over his chest and smirked. "And they're good for pest control."

"They _are _the pests!" Szayel protested. "They're probably the reason Aizen has to send someone to come get you for meetings and hand deliver messages all the time. These damn cats eat his messenger insects."

Grimmjow let the smirk grow to a smug smile. "Like I said: entertainment and pest control. And all for the low, low price of a bowl of water in the back room behind the couch." He paused as one of the cats took a swipe at the pill canister and then darted under the bed to chase it, followed by the second one. "You should start your own herd. They're very easy to keep, and probably more intelligent than your fraccion."

Szayel's glare was all the reward he needed to keep going. There was a chance that he could irritate the Octava enough to earn a few minutes alone.

"Anyway, it's not like I go looking for them," he continued. "When I see one in the hallways I kill it just like everyone else does. I mean, unless I recognize it as one of mine," Grimmjow corrected. "Then I've got to cart the thing back here."

"Yes," Szayel nodded, still following the cats with his eyes. "Except for a skinny little white cat that ended up in the prisoner's room."

Grimmjow frowned. "Huh? No, I've got four." He counted them off on his fingers. "That scrawny black one you noticed at first, these two grey ones, and an enormous, long-haired tortoise shell that sleeps more than Stark does after a big meal."

Szayel raised an eyebrow at him. "And her white cat?"

He shrugged. "Must have come through the window."

"The _barred _window."

"Hey," he said with a grin, "you said it was skinny. I bet it could fit with those bars so far apart."

Szayel shook his head, and they watched the two cats scuffle with each other for a long moment, the pill canister forgotten in their mock fight.

Grimmjow yawned, thankful that he could finally breathe well enough to do that. "I'm surprised they came out, actually. They're usually smart enough to hide from visitors." He waited until Szayel turned his attention from the cats. "Maybe it's because you overstayed your welcome by three weeks. They must think you're part of the decor."

"I've only been staying here two and a half weeks, and _I'm_ surprised you even know that word," Szayel sniped back.

"What, 'decor?'" he asked. "Why wouldn't I know the word? I'm not stupid."

Szayel reached down to gather his papers up into a loose stack. "You're not exactly polished, either."

"Fuck off."

"I plan to. I need to go tally all these results in my lab so I can begin creating the ultimate bacteria as part of my revenge." He watched the cats scamper back to the inner room at his movements and shook his head again. "Does Aizen know about them?"

Grimmjow shrugged, trying to hide his excitement at the prospect of alone time. "He hasn't done anything about it, so either he doesn't know or he doesn't care. Whichever is fine with me."

"Hm." Szayel stretched to pop his back and made his way to the door. "I'll send Stark in to keep you company while I'm gone."

Grimmjow groaned and rolled his eyes. "Joy." So much for a little privacy. The door had been closed only a minute when the glass of water on the far side of the table started looking very good and very out of his reach. If he was loud enough, he could probably get Szayel back in the room to push the water closer. Or, he could wait for Stark to come.

"Fuck that," he muttered. He was an Espada. Sick or not sick, there was no excuse for an Espada to be helpless. He narrowed his eyes at the water glass and stretched out his arm. Nothing doing. He braced himself with his other arm and dragged himself the foot or so necessary to get to the water, and swore softly as his fingertips barely brushed the side of the glass. At this rate he'd use up all his energy getting to the water and have none left for drinking it.

"Want some help?"

Grimmjow let his arm drop and fell back against his pillow. "No," he muttered, wondering how Stark had managed to get in without him even noticing. "But I want the water enough to put up with help, if you're offering."

Stark walked over and put his arms around Grimmjow's shoulders, hoisting him into a sitting position against his headboard, and then held the rim of the glass up near Grimmjow's lips. "Tell me when you're done with it."

Half a glass of water later, Grimmjow nodded and leaned his head back against the wall. "Thanks." At least with Stark he was sure to never have this come back and bite him. That was more than he could say for any of the others, except maybe Halibel and Zommari.

"No problem." Stark pulled out the chair and leaned forward on the table, his cheek cradled on one palm. "I'd say that pneumonia/medicine combo wiped you out, Grimmjow. Any energy you had left you spent flailing around, and screaming at imaginary whatsits, and shooting ceros at Aizen. It's no wonder you're tired."

It took a moment to process anything Stark said, since he was still busy reveling in the satisfaction of quenched thirst. When it did all get processed, he frowned. "Huh?"

Stark guessed what he was asking and nodded. "Szayel says you threw a fistful of cero at Aizen when he came to visit."

Grimmjow blinked. He had indeed heard that correctly. It wasn't wishful thinking or auditory hallucination. _What's that human saying about charms? A third time couldn't hurt_. "Stark, you're telling me that after all these years, I finally had an opportunity to cero Aizen... and I _took _it..." he trailed off as Stark nodded. "And I don't even get to remember doing it!?"

Stark shrugged. "Szayel managed to defuse the situation somehow. He was kind of vague about the details."

"Life is even less fair than I thought," he groaned. Never mind that Stark seemed to be withholding information. That didn't matter. What mattered was the chance offered, taken, and forgotten.

"If it helps any, you should be getting your strength back during the next few days. The medicine's fading pretty quickly."

Grimmjow shook his head. "Yeah, but it's not like I'm ever going to get a second chance at Aizen." The first chance couldn't have been anything but a fluke, after all.

"You know, I really don't see what your big problem is with him. Live and let live, I say."

He shot a level look at Stark and let his inner monologue run. "Self-righteous, hypocritical, usurpationist shinigami who have no business even setting foot in Hueco Mundo, much less lording it over the rightful inhabitants, like this shit hole isn't bad enough already, we need to have fucking orders crammed down our throats and neat little, white, themed uniforms shoved over our heads, and all the while he's got that damned smile on his face that I just want to scrape off with a fucking rusty machete--"

"You know you're saying that aloud, right?" Stark looked back at the door, as though afraid someone would overhear.

Grimmjow blinked and cut himself off mid-thought. "I hadn't noticed." He'd have to work on that brain-mouth barrier before there was another meeting. It seemed to have been corroded by the pneumonia.

Stark turned to face him again, somewhat uneasily. "So what exactly is Szayel working on?" he asked to change the subject. "I would have thought he had his hands so full taking care of you that there wasn't any time for a new project. He looked miserable enough, anyway."

"Pink? He's designing... stuff." Grimmjow watched Stark's face shift from uneasy to suspicious, and knew he'd end up explaining. He'd have rather left that to Szayel, who undoubtedly knew more about it.

"Stuff," Stark repeated flatly.

Grimmjow sighed. "Well for one, he's going to be running regular tests on any arrancar who so much as sniffles to be sure no one else develops this pneumonia shit."

"That's good to hear."

"He's also going to make his own version of it that only affects shinigami. Don't bother asking me how he's going to do that. I'm still shaky on the concept of bacteria other than that they're small."

Stark rubbed at his face with both hands and sighed. "Didn't we get orders to lay low ever since that ryouka thing? Wasn't that the whole point of the temporary truce?"

Grimmjow kept his mouth shut. There was no point in denying that, and he didn't feel like acknowledging stupid orders when he didn't have to.

"I see," Stark said, putting pieces together anyway. "He's going against orders so that he can get revenge on that captain who defeated him. I hate to say it, but that sounds more like something you would do, Grimmjow."

"Where do you think he got the idea?"

"You're a walking negative influence, you know that?"

Grimmjow shrugged, inching his way down until he was curled on his side again. "What can I say? I do my part to make this a better place."

He yawned, trying to keep his eyes open as the latest wave of exhaustion rolled over him. Who knew sitting up and talking could take so much energy? "Shit," he mumbled. "I'm half sure I'll never be able to sleep again once this is all over because I'm using up all the sleep that was allotted to me for this lifetime."

Stark laughed. "Nah. I'd have run out of sleep ages ago." There was a pause. "If you're going to be asleep, Grimmjow, you think you'll be all right alone for it? Yammi and Halibel are going to be needing the garganta opened at the park in a few minutes."

Grimmjow mustered up the energy to be confused for a moment. "I thought they were back already."

"Assignment got extended by a few days. Something about a bus stop."

"Cool. Do whatever." Grimmjow listened for the door, and let himself fully relax once it closed. It just figured he'd be too tired to appreciate it when he finally got some time alone.

* * *

"Grimmjow."

There was the sound of a cleared throat, and Grimmjow decided to ignore the intrusion by curling tighter into his blankets.

"Grimmjow, wake up. It's time for your meal."

He wanted to pretend he was still asleep, but vaguely recalled getting blankets stolen from him the last time he pulled that stunt, and the incident didn't bear repeating. He forced his eyes open, and then did a double take. "I thought I'd finished all the medicine," he said, looking up at Szayel. There were several things not right with this picture, and he almost dreaded the moment he figured it out.

"You have."

Grimmjow scrunched up his face, and mentally told the hallucination to scram. It didn't go anywhere. "I thought that meant no more hallucinations."

"It does."

He blinked twice. "Your hair isn't pink." He ran his eyes down this much shorter, paler figure and then back up to the green tears and horned mask. "Among other things."

"I'm not Szayel," Ulquiorra said tersely. "Halibel and Yammi returned from Karakura bearing influenza, and we moved you here to avoid the outbreak on the East wing." He set down a bowl of lumpy, off-white... something... and continued. "You'll be staying with me for the next two weeks."

"Huh." Knowledge of this switch was not coming to him, not even in vague snippets, and he thought he must have been completely out of it at the time or he would never have agreed to this. Grimmjow pinched his arm once, and then again, hard enough to bruise. "Well, so much for the nightmares being over."

Ulquiorra didn't respond to the jibe. "You need to eat in order to regain your strength more quickly. I've made you a bowl of bananas and applesauce over steamed rice."

Grimmjow gulped and levered himself into a sitting position against the back and arm of the couch. "There's no way I'm eating that."

Ulquiorra sat down opposite him and cleared his throat. "I will give you twenty minutes. If it isn't finished by then, I will tie you to this chair and force feed you."

It had the ring of a line he'd practiced many times, and Grimmjow wondered whether the prisoner balked at Ulquiorra's cooking the way a sane person would. "Force feed me?" he asked. "You just try it. I'll bite your fucking fingers off."

Once again, Ulquiorra seemed completely unfazed by the comment, his stoic expression not faltering for a moment. "If you were to bite me, Grimmjow," he promised softly, "I would break every tooth out of your head and have Aizen-sama rename you Gummjow."

_Oh, so he's going to play like this, is he? Well this is something I've got the energy for._ "Okay, first off, that fucker didn't give me my name," he returned. "And second... Damn, Ulquiorra! That was pretty good. I never would've expected that out of a butt-kissing little piss midget like yourself."

"There are now seventeen minutes remaining." Ulquiorra pushed the bowl closer to him and sat back, his expression never changing and his eyes never leaving Grimmjow's.

"Oh, come on," he said. "You can't be serious. I'm not even taking the medicine anymore, so there's no need for food. Especially food like _that_." Grimmjow waited for a response, and got none for a long, silent moment.

Then, "Ten minutes, Grimmjow."

He looked incredulously from the bowl to Ulquiorra and back, heard Ulquiorra clear his throat again, and tried to think of a graceful way out of this situation. A way that involved him not backing down and yet not being force-fed.

Ulquiorra shifted in his seat but remained silent as he stared.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're serious."

"And you are down to six and a half minutes."

Grimmjow silently vowed revenge and started shoveling. His pride demanded that he steadfastly refuse to eat, but at this point, his better judgment had taken over and if his pride thought it was bad to give in, he didn't want to know what it would think of being tied up and spoon fed.

He'd thought when he first smelled this particular creation of Ulquiorra's that it bordered on disgusting, but even eating fast enough to avoid any but the barest contact between "food" and tongue didn't prevent him from coming to a different conclusion. This slop didn't border on disgusting. It crossed that border and traveled several miles inland.

The saving grace, as he tossed the bowl and spoon back onto the table, was that Ulquiorra didn't seem to be getting any enjoyment out of watching him suffer. "I am _not_ scraping the sides. In fact, I think it'd serve you right if I threw up all over your floor."

Ulquiorra stood up and collected the bowl and spoon. "I'm pleased you enjoyed it," he said, utterly deadpan. "You might as well get whatever sleep you can."

Grimmjow watched him leave, and figured sleep would actually be a good thing, even if Ulquiorra was the one who suggested it. He'd rather dream bizarre things than have to live through them. And it might take his mind off the sloshy feeling in his stomach after what passed for a meal in Ulquiorra's mind.

The walls here were lined with books just like his own walls, only these books all seemed to have white paper dust jackets. It was the sort of anal attention to detail he'd come to expect from Ulquiorra, and it contributed to an overwhelming sense of stark white sterility in the room. There was less color here than in the prisoner's room, and all she had was that single rug on the floor.

He took a deep breath and wrapped his blanket tighter around himself, closing his eyes to the glaring whiteness in the room. If only that sterile quality extended to smells. Instead, here he was, alone, but for all intents and purposes surrounded by Ulquiorra. It was unnerving, and it was keeping him awake.

Grimmjow had only just gotten to that pleasant place between sleeping and waking when his new keeper returned, heralded by a scuff of feet on the floor and a softly cleared throat. He roused himself enough to wonder at that, but kept his eyes closed as he followed the sounds Ulquiorra made as he moved about the room.

A pause at the bookshelf there near the door, soft thumbing through pages, a scuff of a second chair being pulled out across the room from the couch, a glass of water being poured, sipped, set down, another round of throat clearing followed by another sip of water. Then a long stretch of silence broken only by turned pages and the occasional cleared throat.

If Ulquiorra was the immature type, Grimmjow would say the bastard was doing that intentionally, to keep him awake. But the littlest Espada acted for all the world more mature than the oldest one, so that couldn't be it. Whatever it was, Grimmjow was sure it wasn't anything serious. If he thought for one moment he was getting sick, Ulquiorra, being the tight-laced, law-abiding, brainwash victim he was, would have reported in to Szayel for a checkup. And there was no way Szayel would leave him here if Ulquiorra had been deemed sick.

After nearly two hours during which Grimmjow alternately pretended to be asleep and tried to fall asleep, a striped messenger hornet buzzed through the wall and alighted on the table near Ulquiorra. Grimmjow gave up both efforts and propped himself up on an elbow, his eyes on the minuscule hollow fluttering its wings while the message was delivered.

"Well?" he asked, once the thing had flown off.

Ulquiorra sighed, and placed a slip of paper in the book to mark his spot. "Get up and put your boots on. Aizen-sama has called a meeting."

"Now?" It wasn't exactly that he was comfortable here--far from it--but he got the distinct impression he'd be even less comfortable in the meeting room.

"It was not on the schedule," Ulquiorra said by way of explanation, sliding the book back onto the shelf where he'd gotten it. He cleared his throat and motioned for Grimmjow to stand. "And yes, we need to leave now if we're going to make it on time."

Grimmjow gritted his teeth and dragged himself up off the couch. At least the West wing was closer to the meeting room than his own wing. That meant less walking, which meant he'd probably be able to keep awake during whatever pointless nonsense Aizen decided to waste his time with today. He pulled on one of the vaguely familiar boots that had been sitting at the other end of the couch, and then the second. After three weeks, it was sort of odd wearing boots again.

And after three steps in the hallway, he figured out why they'd only been vaguely familiar. "What the hell did you do to my boots, Ulquiorra?"

"Excuse me?"

"They're fucking loud." Each step now echoed down the hall the way some of the better-dressed women's heels had in Karakura. Fuck. People would hear him coming from three corridors down with these things on. He stood still a moment, and heard Ulquiorra's make the same click-clack noise.

"These are the newest standard issue, Grimmjow." Ulquiorra walked on ahead of him, clicking the whole way. "I suggest you get used to them."

Grimmjow caught up, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "What was so terrible about the _old _standard issue?" Those boots had been worlds above the shinigami-based tabi and zori that had made up the original standard issue, and they'd been quiet, too.

Ulquiorra turned toward him a moment, an expression very nearly a smile playing over his face. "I believe it had something to do with your skills at hide and seek, Grimmjow."

"Aizen needs a new hobby if that's what he spends his time worrying about." He paused when Ulquiorra stopped walking, and turned around to look at the shorter Espada. "What?"

"We're two thirds of the way there," he replied as though the answer were obvious. "You need a rest before we continue, or you won't make it through the meeting."

Only confusion that Ulquiorra hadn't reprimanded him about his comment and the fact that he _did _feel like leaning against the wall kept him from denying Ulquiorra's statement about needing a rest. He might feel better than this morning, and infinitely better than a few days ago, but this was taking a lot out of him. More than he'd care to admit. He thought about sliding down the wall and just sitting for a while, but the notion that he'd have to get himself back up kept him standing.

"We have fifteen minutes to rest, Grimmjow." Ulquiorra cleared his throat and sat cross-legged against the wall beside him. "You might as well sit."

Grimmjow looked down at the top of Ulquiorra's mask for a moment, and then followed suit, hugging his knees against his chest so he could rest his head on them. "What's up with the throat?"

"Hm?"

"You keep clearing your throat. Why?" Grimmjow told himself he didn't really care, that he was just curious. And that was mostly correct, anyway.

Ulquiorra didn't answer for a moment, then shrugged, the motion looking out of place on his normally still frame. "In the park, there are drinks called soda, which tingle in the throat. I believe I simply consumed too much of this soda last night."

Grimmjow nodded, but didn't reply. They'd be getting company in the hallway soon, and judging by the length of the time between each heel click, their company would be very tall. Nnoitra was perhaps the last Espada Grimmjow wanted to see at the moment.

"And jus' what're you two doin' sittin' there like that?" Nnoitra came to a stop next to them and leered down. "I thought kitty was suppos'ta stay in bed."

Grimmjow looked up, running through a list of potential ways to get rid of Nnoitra. His list faltered when he got a good look at the taller Espada's face, specifically, at the angry red area surrounding his visible eye. "What the fuck is wrong with your eye?"

Nnoitra snarled, slamming a fist into the wall above his head. "You oughta know, prick! You fuckin' spat at me!"

"Last I checked, my spit wasn't corrosive." Grimmjow frowned. "Seriously. What happened?"

Ulquiorra cleared his throat. "He assumed that he had been infected with what he termed num--"

"Shut up!" Nnoitra interrupted him, again punching the wall. "Don't you say a word, Ulquiorra. Fuck you both!" He turned a glare on the both of them and took off down the hall, pausing to look back at them before turning the corner. "Just you wait, _Jacques_. I've got plans for you!" Nnoitra spun on his heel disappeared down the adjacent hallway, moving more quickly than before.

Grimmjow watched him go, confused. "Huh?"

"After you spat at him, Nnoitra spent the greater part of an hour scrubbing his eye with dish detergent and a scouring pad from the kitchen. His vision has since returned, but his ego is still sore over the matter."

"Fuck." Grimmjow held back a smile. He had a fuzzy memory of Nnoitra being in his room, talking about French. In his memory, he'd wanted to chase Nnoitra out, but he'd had no idea how effective he'd been. Sometimes, he impressed even himself.

"It is time to move on." Ulquiorra stood up and shifted his shoulders back, then reached down to haul Grimmjow to his feet by the collar of his uniform and press him against the wall.

Grimmjow blinked away the stars from the sudden movement and glowered at Ulquiorra. "Get your hands off me."

"When I am satisfied you are able to stand on your own, I will do so." Ulquiorra waited a few more seconds and then released his uniform and took a step back. "Let's go."

Grimmjow spent the rest of the trip glaring at Ulquiorra's back as they walked, slowly, down the hallway. He didn't need someone to keep him upright, for fuck's sake. He just needed for no one to jerk him upright all of a sudden. That's all. He slid into his seat and slumped back, both glad he'd made it and pissed to be there.

"I hadn't expected you to be feeling up to a meeting, Grimmjow," Aaroniero murmured from the end of the table. "Welcome back."

He grunted, almost more upset by the pleasant welcome than by the fact that he was back. He could think of no fewer than a dozen things he'd rather be doing, most of them involving pillows and a fuzzy blanket.

"Grimmjow is far from well," Szayel corrected, ignoring the look his former patient shot him. "Though I am impressed you managed to get him here, Ulquiorra."

Ulquiorra glanced down the table. "Where are the others?"

"Well," Szayel said, "Halibel is feverish like Grimmjow was, and Yammi is vomiting almost hourly. It's likely they're contagious, so they're staying in the East wing."

Stark sighed, raising his head from the table. "And I'm going to be staying with Lilinet. There's no way I'm losing even more sleep to sick hall mates."

Aaroniero shuffled a stack of papers in front of him. "Barrigan and Zommari have had to extend their assignment by several hours, and won't be returning until tomorrow morning. I've taken notes on their progress so far if I'm called on to report." He paused. "It's just as well, since this meeting wasn't mandatory like tomorrow's."

Grimmjow perked up at that. "This shit isn't mandatory ?" He stood up, bracing himself briefly with a hand on the table to keep a momentary dizzy spell at bay. "I'm outta here." He got perhaps three feet from the door when it opened and he found himself face to face with Aizen.

"Where are you going, Grimmjow?"

Remembering his conversation earlier with Stark where he'd spoken what were supposed to be mere thoughts, Grimmjow kept his mind as closed as his mouth for a moment. "Nowhere," he finally muttered. "Sir."

"Ah, then why don't we go take our seats?" Aizen breezed past him, followed by grinning Ichimaru and Tousen, who spared him a pointed scowl.

Feeling particularly defeated, Grimmjow went back to his seat, slinking as far down in it as he could while remaining technically seated. It would be his goal today to say absolutely nothing, and to forget that recurring nightmare about hands that alternately held him down and petted his hair.

"It has come to my attention," Aizen began, "that we now have two Espada on the East wing down with what is likely influenza. Given the highly contagious nature of this illness, all current residents in the East wing will now be under a quarantine."

"Except for me, right?" Stark sat forward, looking somewhat worried. "I'm free to go, aren't I?"

Aizen let his gaze fall on Stark. "You opened the garganta for them, correct?" He continued at Stark's nod. "That's a long span of time in relatively close contact. Szayel will have to monitor you for infection before I'll lift the quarantine for you."

Nnoitra surreptitiously covered his mouth and leaned to his left, as far away from Stark as he could get without leaving his seat entirely. "And the rest of us?" he asked nervously. "I mean, you got Grimmjow stayin' with Ulquiorra now, an' he was sick, too."

Ulquiorra cleared his throat before responding. "Actually, Nnoitra, Grimmjow hasn't been contagious for quite some time. He's perfectly safe, in terms of illness."

Grimmjow looked around the table, trying to distract himself from the comment burning a hole through his tongue. Aaroniero looked a little tenser than usual, and Szayel exuded resignation about the matter. Nnoitra's reaction was almost humorous enough to keep his attention, but...

Aizen's nod dragged his attention to the left. "I would suggest staying in your rooms whenever possible until the quarantine is fully lifted."

"So what you're saying," Grimmjow began, appalled at his tongue's betrayal but unable to stop, "is that you dragged us all together for a meeting in an enclosed space just so you could tell us all not to get anywhere near each other."

"In a manner of speaking, Grimmjow," Aizen murmured, "you might say that. I find announcements are paid more attention when made officially like this. Thank you for bringing up that point."

Grimmjow lost track of what Aizen said after that, and had to remind himself to close his mouth and not stare at the man. Thank you? Really? That didn't make much sense. Grimmjow sat up straighter, still trying to figure out what it was that happened there.

"I'll be making a precursory tour of the fraccion and numeros tomorrow as well," Aizen continued, "in order to determine how extensive a quarantine will be needed. None of you are to contact your fraccion until I have cleared them."

"Hold up," Grimmjow said. "You think the others may be sick and so you're calling a quarantine for _us_, but then you're going to fucking wander the hallways _yourself?_" He scrunched up his face in confusion. "How does that make any sense?"

Aizen waved to his side, and Tousen took a step back and removed his hand from his hilt. "Thank you, Grimmjow. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. I assure you, however, that I will be fine."

"My... wait, what?" Grimmjow wondered briefly if they were speaking the same language anymore.

"If there's nothing else?" Aizen asked the room. They all returned blank looks that mirrored some of Grimmjow's confusion. "Well then, you're dismissed."

Nnoitra darted out of the room almost before Aizen was finished speaking, and Grimmjow shot to his feet a heartbeat later, but found himself pulled back down by Aizen's hand on his arm. He felt his eyes widen and he leaned back as Aizen leaned forward.

"You sat through the entire meeting without being overly disruptive, and you expressed concern for others as well." Aizen smiled warmly at him, an expression that sent chills down Grimmjow's back. "Your phrasing could be improved, but I am, on the whole, very pleased. Thank you for the good work." Aizen gave his arm a pat and then got up and swept out of the room, leaving behind a room-wide frozen silence.

It took Grimmjow a moment to find his voice again as he stared at the door Aizen had gone through. "What the fuck was that?" he finally managed, turning to look at the other remaining Espada, who were all equally stunned.

"I wonder how much they would bill me for each hour of therapy," Szayel murmured to himself, staring down at his gloved hands. "Even if it's ridiculously expensive, it might be worthwhile."

* * *

OMAKE:

Aizen led his stolen captains from the meeting room, hardly sparing a thought to his path as he flipped to the back of his dog-eared parenting book. He carefully made a notation on the provided chart, taking down the date and time of the experiment, the words said, the actions taken, and the results he anticipated.

"Tha's your book on strong-willed kids, right?" Gin asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Mhm," Aizen confirmed, his attention still on the last of his notes. This and the other book agreed that punishment did nothing to avert bad behavior, and that reasoning rarely accomplished anything. Instead, both strongly advocated praise for behaviors that should be continued, and a clear set of boundaries. He closed the book sharply.

Well, he'd always been nothing if not clear about the boundaries, and while he doubted the benefits of praise, he had to admit that it seemed to have been working with Ulquiorra from the beginning. Of course, that one had never had any behavior problems to be corrected. It was good that those two were sharing a room for the time being. Perhaps Ulquiorra's continual presence would have some positive effect on Grimmjow.

Aizen opened the book again and made an additional note in the back. It would be helpful to see whether this unanticipated assistance sped things along.


	11. Escalation

Disclaimer: So, yeah. I still don't own a single thing here. And I'm still living just at the poverty line, so if you'll kindly move along and find someone with more money to be the recipient of your lawsuit...

Summary: It's now two days after all of Las Noches has been put under quarantine, and if Szayel thought he had his hands full with just Grimmjow... well. It's bleak times in Las Noches, and Ulquiorra's soda habit has come to haunt him and his unwilling roommate.

* * *

Escalation

Grimmjow stared up at the ceiling. The white ceiling. The white ceiling that matched every single fucking object in this room except for himself. The quarantine was now two days old, and in the three days he'd been here, he and Ulquiorra had come to an understanding, one reached only after many long hours of verbal sniping, deadpan threats, and a few thrown books. Neither of them was pleased with their current living arrangement, and so they would stay out of each other's way as far as was possible considering that neither of them could actually leave. It was a policy of non-interference, as Ulquiorra put it. The divide between the two rooms would make up the divide between the two Espada. Ulquiorra, after relocating two dozen books and a small handful of odds and ends from the shelves to the bedroom, was free to do whatever he wanted without Grimmjow sending verbal barbs in his direction, and Grimmjow, provided he didn't destroy any property, was left to his own devices in the front room, which so far amounted to trying to sleep and staring at the vast and empty expanse of white.

Scowling, he rolled over to face the back of the couch instead. The goddamned _white _couch. It was inescapable. It was everywhere. And just like that vaguely sterile but largely unidentifiable scent that _was _Ulquiorra, it felt like the white was crowding in, permeating everything, almost. Getting closer even as it stayed so coldly in place. He closed his eyes, but while that eliminated the white, it did nothing to get rid of the scent, or the _other _main problem with this exile to Ulquiorra's room.

And there that main problem was again: the cleared throat that over the last two days he'd come to depend on like clockwork to keep him awake when he wanted so desperately to just fall asleep. This time, as had become usual in the evenings, it was followed by a soft cough, and the sound of water being poured into a glass. After a moment, the glass clicked down onto a table and fabric shifted as Ulquiorra tried to get comfortable.

Grimmjow sighed, having given up on getting comfortable himself. His cats were less bothersome during the nights, and those little fuckers were always busy chasing each other around both rooms and across the bed and the couch and any other horizontal surfaces he didn't want them on. At least Ulquiorra was having as hard a time sleeping as he was. He winced at the next set of coughs, which was followed by a low moan. He knew what that felt like. It wasn't pleasant. At least, it wasn't pleasant if it was the same thing he'd had.

He sat up and let the blanket pool around his waist. Surprisingly, the part of him that wanted to take a peek into the bedroom and gleefully observe his enemy in this moment of misery was a teeny-tiny part to begin with and getting smaller every time Ulquiorra coughed or cleared his throat. Instead, there was this _other _feeling, which he didn't quite understand and wasn't entirely comfortable with, despite nearly a day of dealing with it. Probably, if this were Nnoitra in the other room, the gloating part would win over this other part hands down. But as it was...

For the fifth time that night, Grimmjow stood up and walked over to the theoretical line they'd drawn in the short hallway that separated the two rooms. He wasn't sure what he was planning to do, anyway. It wasn't like there was much he _could_ do, even if he _did _want to help somehow. Unlike the other times, he stayed there a moment, and finally stepped over the mutually-imagined barrier to tap on the door frame. "You want some more water?" Given how often Ulquiorra had filled that water glass tonight, he had to be running out or near to it.

Instead of an answer, there was an itchy mumble that not even his ears could pick out, and Grimmjow frowned. "Come again?"

"I said I have some," Ulquiorra rasped, holding his throat with one hand and shooing him away with the other. "Get out of my room."

"Yeah, well fuck you, too, Ulquiorra." He made the appropriate gesture. "Fuck you, too."_ So much for trying to be nice for once_. Grimmjow rolled his eyes as he retreated to the main room, where he glanced around at the white books, the white candlesticks, the white furniture and rug and walls and ceiling and... He missed his own room. He'd barely settled back onto the couch when the throat clearing started again, and was followed, once again, by coughing. Grimmjow toyed with the idea of pulling his hair out at the roots or going back in there and smothering Ulquiorra with one of his own white pillows, and instead pulled the blanket up over his ears. How he was supposed to regain any strength at all when he couldn't catch more than ten minutes of near-sleep at a time was beyond him. At this point, he would swear the bags under his eyes had bags underneath _them_.

Grimmjow had known it was going to be another long night, but after an additional three hours during which Ulquiorra cleared his throat less and less and coughed more and more, Grimmjow found himself sitting up again. It was irritating, to be sure. But somehow, he found it more irritating that he wasn't deliriously pleased about Ulquiorra's suffering, especially considering the brushoff his offer of help had received. Instead there was that... other thing. The one that wouldn't go away. The one that was confusing. The one that went against every other instinct he possessed. _That_ thing almost thought Ulquiorra didn't deserve to be sick, and that he ought to do something about it whether the Cuarta wanted him to or not.

It was that ...thing... that finally demanded he get up and pull on his boots and go find Szayel, regardless of the quarantine. As he clomped down the hall--and fuck these boots that made him clomp when he should be stalking--Grimmjow told himself that all this was really just impatience and a desire for a good night's sleep. That it bore no resemblance to compassion, because arrancar were glorified hollows, and hollows didn't feel stupid shit like "compassion." No, it was nothing as soft as that shit. This was purely practical. He wanted sleep. He'd wanted it for three days now, to include that first day before the quarantine had been called. To put it simply, Ulquiorra was getting in the way of that sleep. So Ulquiorra needed to be dealt with. And Szayel was the go-to guy for dealing with this kind of thing. That was all there was to it. Fuck compassion.

He got to the central courtyard where all the main wings connected, and plopped himself down on a bench. Shit. Walking was not supposed to be this hard. He'd only made it halfway before needing to stop, and this after two solid days of forced rest under the quarantine. At this rate he'd never get back to his old self. Grimmjow leaned back and considered the positives. With the quarantine in effect and extended to cover the entirety of Las Noches, there was no one to see him sprawled on this bench practically oozing pathetic exhaustion. That was good. And there was no one in the hallways to play pranks on, so Ichimaru wasn't likely to be rearranging things. Also good. He wouldn't waste any energy getting caught in a sudden dead end.

After about a half hour, Grimmjow took a deep breath and dragged himself upright, momentarily holding onto the back of the bench for balance. Onward. He prepared a mental to-do list. 1. Find Szayel. 2. Get Szayel to come shut up Ulquiorra's coughing. 3. Go to sleep for the first time since he first woke up on Ulquiorra's white fucking couch. It was a good list. He congratulated himself on its streamline nature as he broke all quarantine regulations to enter the forbidden East wing and complete the first task.

Here, there was also coughing. Mostly it came from Halibel's room, though if he remembered right, Yammi was sick also, and he thought he heard retching from Stark's room. Szayel's room was central to those three, so Grimmjow assumed that was the best place to find the Octava. He mashed a fist against the eight on the door and peeked in. The light was on, but he didn't immediately see Szayel.

He decided to go in instead of calling the Octava's name, on the chance that the other Espada was in the back room. There was no sense at all in waking up anyone he didn't have to. If he only got Szayel's attention and no one else's, he wouldn't have to answer to Aizen. It wasn't the prospect of being reprimanded for breaking quarantine that had him wary, either. No, that would be fine. Normal, even. He was more than a little afraid, though, that the man would _thank _him for going out of his way to help a colleague, and the notion of being thanked for more shit was enough to make him want to stay under the radar.

"Szayel?" he asked softly, stepping around the couch and the table, both piled with what looked like medical charts and precariously balanced beakers of something thick and pink. It was galling to be sneaking around Las Noches like he didn't belong here. But if Ulquiorra's room was sterile in its whiteness, this one was just plain creepy. It looked almost as if the Octava had relocated part of his laboratory for easier access. Grimmjow was half afraid to touch anything, and that included the floor.

Grimmjow poked his head around the doorway to look into the back room, where there were even more elaborate chemical setups and the bed was propped upright against one wall to make more space. "Pink," he called. "Are you in here?"

"What is it, Aaroneiro!" came an impatient voice from the far back of the room, behind a rack of equipment Grimmjow didn't recognize. "Who's vomiting _now?_" The familiar head of pink hair appeared around the side of the rack, and Szayel pushed his goggles up over his mask to rest on his forehead. "Oh, it's you. What you want?"

Seeing the Octava in full-on lab gear, including splattered smock and elbow-length rubber gloves, Grimmjow found himself without words for a moment, which was just as well since Szayel did a double-take and starting screaming at him.

"Wait-- What are you _doing_ here, you idiot? Are you _insane!?_" Szayel demanded, holding up a tube of something green and gesturing wildly with his free hand.

Grimmjow took a step back. "I just--"

"Cover your mouth!" Szayel interrupted him, and made a frantic motion towards his jacket.

"What? I--"

"Cover it!"

Grimmjow obeyed, jerking the edge of his jacket up over the bottom part of his face. He'd known the Octava was frazzled from dealing with him all this time, but he hadn't thought the man had snapped. He looked downright crazed at the moment, and the mad scientist getup wasn't helping the image.

Szayel took a deep breath and put the test tube in a holder to one side before looking back at him, exhaustion overtaking crazy for the moment. "What is it, Grimmjow? Why are you here?"

He hesitated for a moment, thinking this whole trip had been a terrible mistake. "Ulquiorra's coughing a lot. I think he's sick, and I figured you needed to check on him." Grimmjow frowned. He'd meant to say he needed Szayel to shut Ulquiorra up so he could sleep, but there was that ...thing... again getting in the way. He didn't think kindness was a likely side effect of being sick for over a month, but he couldn't think of any other explanations, either. Probably it was just some residual weakness, some lingering problem that would go away as soon as he was fully recovered. Maybe it was just that Ulquiorra was so damn pathetic sounding when he moaned after a coughing spell. He hoped it was something like that, anyway. He had an image to maintain.

"Coughing, _how?_" Szayel asked, his eyes narrowed.

Grimmjow shrugged. "I don't know. Coughing."

"Productive or not?"

"What the fuck does that mean? No it's not 'productive.' It's keeping us both awake. How is that productive?"

Szayel sighed. "Okay. Get out of here. I just need to finish this formula for Charlotte and I'll be by to check on Ulquiorra."

Grimmjow nodded, getting out as quickly as he could without tripping on piles of research or knocking over weird-shaped machinery. He was all the way to the bench again--such a lovely bench, and not white! Why had he never stopped to appreciate it before?--when he thought to wonder about what Szayel would be making for Coolhorn, and why he'd assumed Grimmjow was Aaroneiro. And what in the world could be so much worse than just Grimmjow himself and the pneumonia that would inspire Szayel to set up a lab in his own room? Grimmjow had been in that room before, and while it had been a little on the dusty side and there'd been a few stacks of research, it had always been relatively normal.

Ulquiorra was still coughing when he finally got back to the room, and hadn't seemed to notice his absence at all. Grimmjow pulled off his boots and sat down on the couch, leaning his head back and staring once again at the ceiling. Two weeks of this shit? He didn't know how Szayel or the others had done it when _he _was coughing. It occurred to him that it might actually be just as miserable being _around _a sick person as it was _being _the sick person.

He'd barely settled in for another attempt at sleep when the door opened and Szayel walked in, carrying a small bag and dressed once more in his usual uniform. Grimmjow got up and followed him to the back room, curious. In under a minute, Szayel had the lights on and a flashlight in one hand, with Ulquiorra sitting up and eying Grimmjow as though he'd been betrayed.

"Okay, Ulquiorra," Szayel said calmly, all traces of his earlier mania gone. "Open your mouth so I can see what's going on in there." He shined the light into the back of Ulquiorra's throat and adjusted the angle until he had a good view, paused a long moment, and then stood back looking intrigued. "_Whoa_."

"That is not a promising reaction," Ulquiorra rasped, grimacing as he tried to swallow.

Grimmjow had to agree with the shorter Espada on that count. If it was enough to get a response like that from Szayel, it was bad news. Very bad news. He had a feeling he'd be relocated again before the night was out, and hoped it wasn't somewhere white. He leaned against the wall and shared a look of commiseration with Ulquiorra before both realized what they were doing and looked away with matching scowls.

Szayel reached into the bag he'd brought and produced a small bottle of dark red liquid. He unscrewed the cap and poured the medicine into the cap, which he handed to Ulquiorra. "Drink this."

Ulquiorra stared at the cap in his hand for a long moment before looking up at Szayel and clearing his throat. "Is this what you gave Grimmjow several weeks ago?"

"_No_," Szayel said, perhaps a little more loudly than he'd intended. "I've thrown that out. This is new, and it has a somnolent in it so even if it does make you crazy, you'll sleep right through it."

After a moment's debate, Ulquiorra put the cap to his lips and downed the medicine in a single gulp. He handed the cap back to Szayel, who wiped it out with a cloth and re-screwed it onto the bottle. Both the bottle and the cloth disappeared into the bag, to be replaced by a second, larger bottle of pale blue liquid.

"That first medicine will keep your coughing to a minimum tonight. This other will temporarily keep any infection you have from spreading when you breathe. I haven't normally been using this if it can be avoided, but given that Grimmjow is staying in your main room, we don't have that option. Here." He handed Ulquiorra a second cup.

"It's empty," Ulquiorra said, looking at it blearily.

Szayel nodded briskly, and then put the bottle of blue medicine into Ulquiorra's free hand, keeping his own hands on it. "Take a mouthful of this, and gargle it for a count of thirty. Do. Not. Swallow. This. Just--"

"What happens if I swallow it?" Ulquiorra interrupted, now looking a touch nervous.

"I lost three fraccion during my trials with this," Szayel replied without losing a beat. He shrugged. "Their deaths were fascinating, but not pretty. So," he continued cheerfully, "just gargle. When you're done, spit it into the cup." He released the bottle and took a step back. "I'll keep count."

Ulquiorra frowned, but put the bottle to his lips and took a swig. He tipped his head back, but half a second into the gargle he choked painfully and only barely managed to spit it into the cup as he succumbed to a coughing fit that left him gasping in a tightly curled ball. "That... _burns_," he managed to whisper.

Szayel sighed, and held the bottle he'd rescued when Ulquiorra doubled over. "_It's good for you_," he ground out, the line as well-rehearsed as Ulquiorra's earlier one about force-feeding. "And since there is nowhere else in Las Noches to put Grimmjow, it's absolutely necessary that we do this. We'll try it again. You didn't make a single count."

Ulquiorra picked himself up from the pillows and gave Grimmjow a long, considering look before turning his attention back to Szayel and the bottle the Octava held out with a grim smile. "I begin to understand Grimmjow's reluctance to be under your care," he whispered hoarsely.

"That was a pathetic first attempt," was the only response he got from Szayel. "Stark did better, and so did Tesla. Though I had to use the second method with Sun Sun. Take another swig."

"Oh, come on," Grimmjow muttered, insanely glad he was no longer in need of medicine of any kind, whether it was a poison from the human doctors or an implement of torture from the resident medic of Las Noches, who seemed to have lost or abandoned whatever bedside manner he'd started out with. "Give him a few minutes to recover, huh?"

Szayel turned the bottle toward him, and Grimmjow took a hasty step back. "You stay out of this, Grimmjow, unless you _want_ to catch whatever it is he has. Over two-thirds of Las Noches has the flu or a cold or something intestinal. I've got limited time and even less patience, and _no one_ can afford for _you _to get sick again, so he's going to get a dose of this by gargling for a count of thirty, or I'm going to inject that dose into the flesh at the back of his throat via this big, pointy syringe."

"Shit!" Grimmjow yelped, throwing up both hands defensively and eying the device that had appeared in Szayel's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Ignore me." He started slinking backwards out of the room, still working his hands in front of him as a shield. "I didn't mean anything by it. I'll just--" He sucked in a panicked breath as he backpedaled. "G-g-go lay down ov-over _there_..." He trailed off as he got out of eyesight and wrapped the blanket tightly around himself, being sure it covered him completely and especially covered his ears. With any luck at all, Szayel would forget he was even there on the way out.

He tried not to listen to the repeated attempts at gargling, the whimpers, the impatient counting or, in fact, anything else that might be going on in that room. At the very least, he thought it probable that the voice of "compassion" or whatever would finally curl up and die, given the decidedly unkind results that had come from his trying to help. Regardless, even if Ulquiorra didn't cough for the rest of the night, Grimmjow knew he wasn't going to sleep well. He'd never seen Ulquiorra's eyes go as wide as they had when Szayel had brandished the syringe, and he didn't blame the Cuarta one bit. He wouldn't be getting that image out of his mind for a while. It was almost as bad as his nightmares about hands.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Grimmjow."

The voice wasn't a hoarse rasp, so it wasn't Ulquiorra. And the combination of that and the quarantine meant the only voice that could be pulling him from the first decent sleep he'd had in--

"Grimmjow, I don't have time for this." A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook.

"Don't pet me!" he yelped, rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. Pink hair swam into focus, and Grimmjow sat up straight and pushed his back as far into the couch as he could. "Oh, _fuck _no," he said, looking up at the Octava. "I said I was _sorry!_ What more do you want?"

Szayel looked back down at him blankly. "What?"

Grimmjow shook his head, wondering if he had the energy to push past Szayel and bolt for the door. "I don't want a needle in my throat, Pink. I really, _really _don't."

"That isn't why I'm here," Szayel replied, pulling up one of the chairs and sitting in just such a way to trap Grimmjow at that end of the couch.

"It isn't?"

Szayel pushed his fingers against his temples as though he had a headache. "No. As far as I can tell, you're one of maybe three dozen arrancar who _aren't_ sick."

Grimmjow did a rough mental tally of the arrancar Aizen had collected or created over the years, and decided to stop when he got near the end of the two-digit numbers, leaving out those so insignificant as to not even get a number. That figure didn't make sense. He'd been the only one sick until Halibel and Yammi, but he couldn't see how three could become over sixty in a matter of days. "But the quarantine--"

"Doesn't take the incubation period into consideration." Szayel waved a gloved hand at him, shaking his head impatiently. "It doesn't matter. You don't care about the details anyway. The point is this. Aaroneiro and I have our hands full with over one hundred sick arrancar and counting." He stopped for a moment, and fixed Grimmjow with a stare he didn't like one bit. "That leaves _you _to take Ulquiorra to the walk-in clinic today."

Grimmjow blinked. He turned that idea over in his mind a few times, and considered all the angles and potentials of the experience before finally responding. "No. _Hell _no. Absolutely fucking not."

"I wasn't asking, Grimmjow. I was tell--"

"You remember that place! Probably better than I do. It was _crawling _with sick people. I'm not getting anywhere near there." Grimmjow folded his arms over his chest. "And why's he even got to go, anyway? Just dose him like all the others. That's what you moved your lab for, right?"

Szayel sighed. "I'm not sure what he has, but after some study, it looks bacterial. It's something new, anyway. I checked my entire stock, and nothing I have is a close enough match to risk it."

"So take him yourself."

"Two. Of. Us," Szayel growled. "One. _Hundred_. Of. Them. And that doesn't even count time away from all of this to bring meals to the prisoner, since quarantine ensures that only Aaroneiro and myself are allowed into the hallways. You're taking him, and that's final."

Grimmjow was about to protest that he didn't want to get sick again, and that Szayel was practically guaranteeing that he _did _get sick again just by sending him into that cesspool of humanity, but the other Espada cut him off.

"So far, your pneumonia has been far and beyond the worst thing any arrancar has developed in this whole outbreak, Grimmjow. Your reaction to the medicine only made it that much more dangerous. I think we're all in agreement that you can't get sick like that again, and so I've redesigned your gigai in preparation for this trip. It took me all of what remained of last night, but it's _perfect_. You'll be fine."

Grimmjow frowned. "What do you mean by perfect?" He seemed to recall "perfect" being the trigger to Szayel's downfall with Captain Caterpillar, and wasn't terribly pleased to hear it applied to a gigai he'd have to wear.

Szayel grinned, excitement overtaking exhaustion. "I've designed it to repel _any _and _every _human-borne illness. This gigai is immunologically indestructible!" He stood and dug around in a pocket, finally withdrawing several slips of paper. "So, here's what you need to know. I've written up a medical history for Ulquiorra--he'll be Cory Shipper, your cousin, also from Australia--and a card with insurance numbers, mailing address..."

He continued talking, something about street addresses, instructions, systems of currency, and the like. Grimmjow found himself lost in the wall of rapid speech and numbly accepted random pieces of paper from the pile in Szayel's hands. He wondered if Szayel realized he still hadn't agreed to any of this. And he wouldn't. That much he was perfectly clear on. He was finished being nice. It hadn't been worth it, and now that that weird feeling had gone away he wasn't about to invite it back. He heard Aizen's name in the babble and held up a hand.

"What was that last bit?"

Szayel stopped. "Oh," he said, waving at the topmost paper in Grimmjow's hands. "Aizen wants you to pick up that package at the post office while you're there. That's the receipt you'll need. And here," he started counting out money, "is enough money for you two to eat, pay the doctor, buy the medicine, and call a cab between stops. I don't want you walking all over town like last time, since you _are _still recovering. If you overdo it, you're going to risk a relapse."

Grimmjow stared. "Call a what?"

"A cab."

"Define 'cab.'"

Szayel sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "It's a vehicle that will pick you up at one spot and take you to another spot, for money. You just tell the driver where to go."

"Oh." Grimmjow nodded, his eyes falling to the nearly translucent paper Szayel had called a receipt. That made sense. It sounded doable--convenient, even. And that's when he realized that by sitting there listening, he had somehow unofficially agreed to this nonsense. By the time he looked up to correct the mistake, Szayel had the door open and was halfway out, telling him that he'd be back in a few minutes with their gigais.

The door closed again before he'd even decided on how to get out of this task. He looked down at the papers. He knew which one was the receipt. He knew the rest of the pile contained medical things, addresses, lists of instructions, and a wad of paper money. And most importantly, he knew he had no idea what to do with any of this.

* * *

OMAKE: Deliberations

Aizen drummed the eraser end of his pencil against the arm of his chair, glancing once more through the list of arrancar who had succumbed to various human illnesses. At this rate, the entirety of Las Noches would be out of commission in under a week, save Aaroneiro, Szayel, and--improbably--Grimmjow. He was pleased that Aaroneiro, with his unique head configuration, was basically guaranteed immunity from most ailments, and surprised that Szayel had yet to show the slightest signs of illness, despite being in the thick of the infections from quite literally day one. And Grimmjow...

The pencil-tapping picked up its tempo. Reading between the lines of Szayel's report, he saw that Grimmjow had risked infection to bring the Octava to Ulquiorra, and had even agreed to take Ulquiorra to the clinic. There was the chance, of course, that this was motivated from a desire to sleep better and that stubbornly rebellious streak of Grimmjow's that treated the rules as applying to everyone _else_. But Aizen would need to make a point of paying the West wing a visit to follow up on his experiment with well-placed praise, and to pick up the food encyclopedia and new parenting books he'd ordered. Yes. If this strategy worked on his unarguably most troublesome Espada, it would surely work on the others. Nnoitra, for instance, would make a good second target once Grimmjow had come around.

"Aizen-sama," Tousen murmured at his side. "May I ask why you don't simply have the woman undo all this sickness and return things to normal around Las Noches? Is there even a purpose to this?"

"Does their suffering bother you, Kaname?"

"It seems impractical, and a touch malicious." The man shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable voicing the opinion.

Aizen sighed. He'd considered that very solution many times over the last few days. "If our arrancar are going to be dealing more closely with both humans and shinigami, Kaname, then they will have to build up some sort of immune system." He sketched a small square in the margins of his list, and then doodled around it as he continued. "Undoing this outbreak would defeat that purpose, really. In a way, the timing of this is excellent, since we're still under the truce and not likely to need a fully functional arrancar army any time this year."

Tousen shook his head. "If this were a _just _illness, it would strike down only those in need of correction. As it is..."

"Grimmjow will come around," Aizen interrupted, knowing where his colleague was taking the argument. "This will work. You remember the meeting, of course. As soon as I thanked him, he sat up straighter. That's an immediate cause and effect. It's just that with the quarantine, there haven't been any new opportunities to move the project ahead, so it's taking longer."

"Immediate cause and effect? He was just confused. As were the rest of them."

Aizen shrugged. "It's only been four days now, and we've already seen some improvement."

"We've seen his blatant disregard for the quarantine, you mean."

Aizen held up the pencil. "Ah, but in order to help Ulquiorra. The motivation must be considered, Kaname."

Tousen grunted, clearly unconvinced. "You are engaging in wishful thinking, Aizen-sama. I believe Gin is correct, and when you lift the quarantine three weeks from now, you will find yourself needing two new Espada."


	12. The Excellent Adventure, P1

Disclaimer: See the part where it says "fan fiction?" Right. I don't own these characters or settings, and I'm not making a dime off of them. Please don't sue me!

Mini-Summary: Twelve: Orihime's cat still isn't friendly, but he sure seems to like Grimmjow. Also, how will the barely-recovering Grimmjow and the newly-sick Ulquiorra survive a day in Karakura all on their own without an able-bodied and sane supervisor? Will they even manage to get to the doctor?

* * *

Grimmjow and Ulquiorra's Excellent Adventure: Part One

Orihime sighed as she sat up and pushed her blanket to the foot of the couch. She glanced up at the window to check the position of the moon. Early. Probably around dawn if she were home. For some reason, it didn't matter at all what she resolved the night before, she couldn't manage to sleep in by even an hour. It was as if her body was permanently stuck in "get ready for school" mode, even when school as a whole dimension away.

"Good morning, Frill," she murmured, reaching up to pet the cat who'd draped himself across the back of the couch for the night. With a shrug of bony shoulders, the cat removed himself from her reach. At least he hadn't hissed. It was an improvement. And about the only improvement there'd been around here for days now since Ulquiorra had disappeared.

Orihime wasn't sure what had happened to change Ulquiorra's mind about destroying the cat, but she was very glad the Cuarta had come back for her dishes that afternoon, but not for Frill. Even if he was the least cuddly cat she'd ever laid eyes on, he was a sort-of-living thing that kept her company and gave her someone to talk to. Or to talk at, anyway. That was something.

Particularly since her melancholy keeper hadn't come back but twice before he was replaced by a tall, thin arrancar with a log-shaped mask and the cutest ruffles on his uniform. Ulquiorra hadn't exactly been talkative--far from it--but he was familiar. And he had a face. And he seemed to care whether she ate her food. This new keeper just dropped off a cart with a wave and was gone again until the next meal.

Orihime moved closer to Frill, her hand outstretched to pet him. The cat moved away with a hiss, jumping off the couch to slink underneath it. She sighed. If she was honest with herself, she was starting to worry about Ulquiorra, even if he did want to kill her unfriendly pet. Maybe he was upset about Frill's name. Had he asked to be reassigned because she'd offended him? He hadn't looked especially pleased by her comparison, but then, she didn't recall _ever _seeing him look especially pleased about anything. Or even marginally pleased. Or somewhat pleased.

In fact, now that she put her mind to it, he generally looked _dis_pleased, cold and untouchable. She couldn't imagine why he and Frill didn't get along, given their similar dispositions. If today was like any other, Frill was going to stay under the couch until after her first meal. Then he'd slink out for some water, spend the rest of the afternoon looking at her from a safe distance of five feet or so, and then creep back into hiding until she fell asleep.

From the corner of her eye, Orihime caught a patch of white ambling across her carpet, and blinked in surprise at the sight of Frill sitting in front of the door. She didn't have long to ponder it, though, before the door swung open.

"Damn," Grimmjow muttered under his breath, nudging the cat out of the way with his foot. "It got fat!"

Orihime looked at Frill for a moment, and then back at Grimmjow. "He's not fat! This is what a healthy cat looks like." It was not, in fact, what a healthy cat looked like. Frill still had a ways to go before she'd dub him healthy. Or friendly. But it was a start.

Grimmjow closed the door behind him and put his back to it and took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm short on time, so--" He stopped to look down at Frill, who was now rolling on the floor for a belly rub. "What the hell are you feeding it, anyway?"

"Just water," she murmured. Orihime tried to wrap her mind around the bizarre concept that she was having an impromptu--and almost polite--conversation with Grimmjow, of all people, about her cat. Her cat that was purring and being affectionate for the first time since she'd gotten him. "I put it in the little dish like you said." Her eyes shot wide open. "I mean," she corrected, "it, uh, seemed like the thing to do after he climbed in through the window all on his own." She willed Grimmjow not to notice the slip-up; it might work even without Jedi powers, given how distractible he seemed at present.

"Huh," he grunted. He cast one last look over his shoulder at the door, as if to be sure it was closed, and then stepped over the cat as he rushed to the couch and sat down next to her. "Look, I really _don't_ have much time, so let's make this quick. I need you to tell me how to call a cab, how to count money," Grimmjow paused to shove Frill off his lap, "and how to get a package using something called a receipt."

Orihime blinked. "O-okay..." The day had started weird, but it kept getting odder. Maybe she had slept in after all, and just hadn't woken up yet. Any minute now there would be a racehorse-shaped robot dipped in chocolate. Since she had a dream visitor who would actually talk, she decided to figure out what all the noise last night had been. If this was actually a dream, he'd tell her. Probably with a smile. "Um, there's been a lot of coughing next door. Are people getting sick or something?"

"No."

She smiled as gently as she could so dream-Grimmjow wouldn't take offense like Ulquiorra had. "That's a lie, isn't it?"

Grimmjow folded his arms over his chest. "Sure is, but I'm sticking to it. Spill. How do you call a cab?"

"Well you use the phone, of course." Clearly, she realized, this was not a dream. He wasn't smiling, there were no dinosaurs, and the look he was giving her told her she'd just said something completely off the wall. She reached down to run her fingers along Frill's back, and the cat moved closer to Grimmjow.

"What the fuck is a 'phone,' woman," he groused, running a hand through his hair in frustration, "and why do you think I know how to use one?"

"Oh," she said, thinking of Rukia and juice boxes. "We're starting from scratch here, aren't we?" She turned around and reached over the back of the couch to the pile of contraband a yawning arrancar had smuggled in for her during the beginning of Ulquiorra's absence. Her fingers brushed a pad of paper, and she grabbed that and a box of crayons.

Orihime flipped open the pad of paper and started to draw. "Okay, here's the garganta you pop out of." She tried not to squirm when Grimmjow scooted closer to see her drawing better. While a confused Grimmjow would be considerably more violent than a baffled Rukia, he hadn't hurt her at all the last few times he'd come, except for the wrist that once. But he'd put the bird back, so that was all right, even if it was because of a fever. "This is the park where Ulquiorra first showed up, okay?"

"Uh-huh." Grimmjow pushed Frill off his lap again, and ignored both the resulting thump when the cat hit the floor and the plaintive mew that followed.

Orihime made a valiant attempt to not be jealous of the attention Frill was giving him, and failed. "And over here," she pointed to the area to the side of the page, "there's a big, person-sized, clear box. It has a phone in it."

"Phones are that big?"

She looked at him with her head titled to the side. "No, they're actually pretty small. But you'll have to stand in the box while you use the phone, so it has to be big enough."

"'Kay." Grimmjow swept a foot to the side, sending Frill stumbling away as he tried to rub against the Espada's legs. "What next?"

Orihime flipped to a new page and drew a phone. "You'll put the money in here, and then you pick up this curved part and push the buttons down there." She scribbled a number down in the margins. "These are the numbers you'll push, in this order." She paused to emphasize her point, and waited until he looked at her. "Grimmjow, if you push the buttons in the wrong order, you won't be talking to the cab company, and you'll be out of money to try again."

Grimmjow waved a hand impatiently. "Got it, got it. Push the number on the buttons." He tapped a finger on the drawing where the buttons were, as though dialing. "See? Come on, what's next? I'm short on time, remember?"

"Now you need to put this curved piece up against your face like this," she said, tracing the shape of the receiver on his face over his hollow mask. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn't smack her for invading his space. Maybe if Ulquiorra ever came back he'd let her touch his mask, too. _And maybe_, she thought, _Ulquiorra isn't coming back because you said his mask was frilly_. She sighed. How was she supposed to know how fragile Ulquiorra's feelings were if he never showed them to her in the first place?

Grimmjow's growl and snapping fingers brought her mind back to the task at hand. "Right," she said, taking her hand away from his mask. "Um, after the ring, you'll hear a voice on the other end of the line."

"What _ring_? What _line_?" Grimmjow rubbed his temples. "I thought we were talking about a _phone_."

Orihime frowned, and decided against an explanation. "Well, you'll hear things when you have the phone against your face. A voice. And then without moving the phone at all, you talk. And they can hear your voice the same way you can hear theirs. Tell them that you're at this address," she kept talking while she wrote it down, "and that you want a cab. Then just follow the instructions."

Grimmjow blinked down at the picture with the address and numbers scrawled along the edge. "And the curved bit?"

"Oh, you put that back where you found it." Orihime watched Frill prepare to jump back onto Grimmjow's lap, his hindquarters twitching as he tensed up. Why not _her _lap? It was softer, and she wouldn't push him off the way Grimmjow did.

Grimmjow exhaled and leaned back against the couch. "Got it. Now about--" He stopped to glare down at Frill, who'd finally made the leap and then started unapologetically kneading the fabric under his paws. Grimmjow scooped the cat up and held him up so they were nose to nose. "Go. Away." He dumped the cat in Orihime's lap. "Now, counting money. Talk."

"That's pretty complicated," she said, putting her hand on Frill's neck under his mask as she'd seen Grimmjow do when he first brought the cat and acting like Frill let her touch him all the time. "You should just hand them the money you have. They'll take what they need and give you the rest back."

"I'm just supposed to trust them?" He sounded incredulous, like the idea itself was an insult.

She smiled, running her free hand along Frill's mask. "Unless you have an hour to figure out all the different bills and coins, then yes. You'll have to trust them."

He grumbled a bit, something about wasting time and not agreeing to do this in the first place, but glanced at the door and dropped the argument. "Okay, fine. Packages."

Maybe it was just that no one had talked to her in what seemed like forever. Or maybe it was Frill actually sitting still to be petted. Whatever it was, she bundled up her caution and tossed it aside. Grimmjow must have really needed the info to be here, after all, and he wouldn't get it if he hurt her. "What is all this for?"

Grimmjow shook his head. "Nothing. Hurry it up. How do you use a receipt to get a package?"

Orihime felt her mouth form a pout. "I never had many visitors before, but now I don't even have Ulquiorra anymore because I made fun of his hollow mask and it hurt his feelings." She let her momentum roll over Grimmjow's attempted interruption. "No, now there's just this guy who talks in two voices when he says anything at all. Which isn't often, I might add. But today I finally have another visitor and you're rushing things!"

"That's because I don't have _time _for this shit, woman!" He fidgeted for a moment, and then sighed. "Look, I'll bring you back some food or something if you'll just tell me how to pick up a fucking package."

"And you'll stay a while after you get back?" She could see his jaw muscles twitch as he ground his teeth, and wished she could retract the statement.

"Fine, I'll try," he muttered. "Whatever. Now talk."

Orihime blinked and decided to press her luck. "I want sweet bread and red bean paste."

"Okay." Grimmjow drummed his fingers impatiently. "Come on, come on. Pink's going to be back any minute now and I'm not allowed in here."

She wondered briefly who "Pink" was, but let the thought slide. "Go to the post office. The receipt will have the address you need. There'll be a person behind the desk, and you'll hand them the receipt. Say you're there to pick up a package, and they'll hand it to you. You're supposed to say thank you afterward."

Grimmjow scrunched up his face in disbelief. "That's it? I hand them some stupid piece of paper, and they hand me something better than the paper?"

"Well you're not getting it for nothing. It's just that someone else already paid for the package. You're just collecting it."

"Huh." He reached over to the notebook and tore out the two pages she'd drawn on. "Okay," he muttered, folding the drawings up and sliding them in his sash before standing to leave. "Bread and bean paste. Got it."

He was almost through the door before she thought to call after him. "_Sweet _bread and _red _bean paste!"

"I said I _got _it!" he yelled over his shoulder just before slamming the door.

Orihime looked down at Frill, who still hadn't moved since she put her hand on his neck. He didn't look very comfortable, but she had a feeling he'd be under the couch before she could blink once she let him go. Instead, she switched hands and ran her fingers along his sides.

_Well_, she thought, _there's been all kinds of improvement today, and the day is just starting_. She wondered what else could get better. Maybe Ulquiorra would come back and she could apologize, tell him his hollow mask wasn't frilly at all. That it was a very nice hollow mask, she'd always admired it, and she'd been mistaken before.

And maybe while Grimmjow was at the post office, he could mail the letters she'd been writing in crayon at the back of the notebook. She glanced up at the door, and frowned. She should have handed them to him before he left. Drat.

* * *

Grimmjow pulled the accordion of paper open, turned it around a few times, and then let it pull itself shut. The lines on it meant nothing to him, but Szayel had insisted he spend the time walking along the garganta looking at it. At least he hadn't said anything about the map being good for him. He rolled his eyes and felt in his gigai's pocket for the folded up drawings the woman had made. If he'd had to pick between her paper and Szayel's, he'd have dropped Szayel's stupid map in a heartbeat. Instead, he opened it again and pretended to be engrossed in the names of all the bridges.

Up ahead, Szayel was pressing a cloth bag into Ulquiorra's hands--sans black nails, Ulquiorra had been unhappy to discover on getting in the gigai--and coaching him in proper hydration and pills that had looked like colorful hard candy when he'd peeked in the bag earlier.

"You'll take one of these every two hours, or more as you need," Szayel said, only then releasing the bag. "Unwrap it, put it in your mouth. Do not swallow it whole," he cautioned, holding a finger up for emphasis. "Do not chew it up. Just let it dissolve on your tongue."

Grimmjow craned his neck to get a better view as Ulquiorra opened the bag and drew out a paper-wrapped oval. He had to agree with Ulquiorra on the fingernails. His hands just didn't look the same without the black tips. In fact, except that he was still unnaturally pale, Ulquiorra could have passed for human just about anywhere. It was jarring.

"It burns," Ulquiorra croaked, grimacing around the cough drop.

Szayel shrugged. "It's good for you."

"Don't trust him," Grimmjow called from behind them. "That's a trap!"

"You shut up," Szayel snapped. "You're supposed to be studying that street map so you don't have to wander around too much. You're not at all as rested as you should be at this stage of your recovery."

Grimmjow flipped him off and continued to ignore the map in question. It wasn't worth the energy to get into an actual verbal brawl. He'd be better off saving that energy to get through another forced tour of Karakura. Aside from being able to breathe this time around, he wasn't feeling especially up to a long trip through town. He attributed it to putting up with Ulquiorra all this time.

The Octava turned to speak to Ulquiorra again. "Those will help you stop coughing, without any side effects. And they should numb your throat, too."

Ulquiorra rolled the cough drop around with his tongue, his expression bordering on disgust but not quite attaining it. "This tastes more terrible with every moment."

"Well, there's eucalyptus," Szayel started ticking off flavors on fingers, "triple mint, cherry, elderberry, strawberry, honey ginger, and something called 'citrus splash.'"

Ulquiorra did not look impressed by the variety. "And this one is?"

Szayel glanced at the wrapper in Ulquiorra's hand. "Triple mint. I think what you're tasting is the menthol. They all have that." He stopped walking and looked around, assessing their location. Apparently satisfied, he nodded. "You've got some of each in there," he said, pointing to the bag. "Let me know which ones you hate least and I'll get you more of them." He paused. "Anything else?"

Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the question and scratched his cheek. Last time he must have been too distracted by the whole not breathing thing to notice how weird it felt to be mask-less. He wondered how Ulquiorra was dealing with it, then remembered he didn't actually give a shit.

Ulquiorra cleared his throat with grimace, and reached up to grab at his neck as though that would ease the pain. "Actually, Szayel," he said, "why Cory Shipper?"

Szayel grinned proudly at that. "It sounds vaguely like your name, so there's a better chance you'll remember to respond to it."

"Don't complain," Grimmjow muttered, leaning over to close some of the distance. "He calls himself Cecil. Yours could be a _lot _worse than Cory."

Glaring, Szayel snapped open the garganta and gave them both a push. "You have until this afternoon. Drink lots of water, and don't kill each other!"

The garganta slammed shut behind them and Grimmjow stared at the space where it had been for a moment before scowling. "There's no need to push, you bastard!" he yelled, knowing full well Szayel couldn't hear him. Seriously. It'd serve him right if they _did _kill each other.

Ulquiorra got to his feet and brushed himself off. "Grimmjow," he rasped. "Where is this 'phone' item we are supposed to use?"

"Let me check," he muttered, digging the first drawing out of his pocket and turning it until the trees on the picture lined up in the same configuration as the ones in the park. "That way," he said, pointing to the left. "In a clear box."

"Is that you, Ulquiorra?"

Ulquiorra groaned. "Not now," he mumbled.

Grimmjow spun around, looking for the voice's owner. It didn't sound like any of the shinigami he'd encountered, but it didn't hurt to know where your enemies were.

"Hey, it _is _you!" A portly plus in a baker's hat was waddling slowly toward them, wringing his chain in both hands. The nervous gesture looked entirely out of place next to his cheery demeanor. "Like what you did with your hair. Looks nice without the hat!"

Grimmjow's open-mouthed stare was interrupted by a pale hand grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward the phone booth at a jog.

"Ignore him," Ulquiorra ordered. "He gives up after a few minutes."

The plus wasn't at all discouraged by the cold shoulder. He followed after them, his pace quickening to match theirs and his voice as loud as could be. "It's been a while, hasn't it, Ulquiorra?! Where've you been? We missed you last week!"

Grimmjow jerked his arm out of Ulquiorra's grasp and slowed to a walk again. There was no way he was wasting valuable energy running from a plus in the park. And actually, there was no way a plus should be chasing him in the park in the first place. He wondered just what the hell Ulquiorra did during his assignments here beyond drink too much soda. "You're being stalked by a _plus_," he accused. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

"Ulquiorra, wait!"

Grimmjow looked over his shoulder and felt the beginnings of a headache as he tried to make sense of the situation. This was worse than trying to understand the woman talking about curving lines in a clear, ringing box, or whatever. The plus had indeed given up on following them, and was instead jumping up and down on a picnic table twenty feet away, his hands cupped around his mouth as he yelled.

"The phone, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra reminded him, grabbing his sleeve again and staring ahead in an even more determined fashion than usual.

The plus jumped even higher. "Any progress on your cupcake?!" he shrieked.

Ulquiorra tripped over nothing and nearly dragged them both into a heap on the grass before Grimmjow managed to correct their footing.

He looked over at Ulquiorra, who refused to meet his eyes. "What the hell is this all about?"

"Listen, we're making another pass this Friday!" the plus continued, oblivious to the effect of his words. "Upped the baking powder to two cups! There's green sprinkles! You should come!"

..........

Sitting on a bench at the street corner fifteen minutes later, with the phone located, the number dialed, and the curved bit put back where he found it, Grimmjow still couldn't figure out why a plus would be waiting in the park to ambush Ulquiorra with an invitation to a baking party, tempting green sprinkles or no. And he got the distinct impression that Ulquiorra didn't want to talk about it. There had to be a simple reason behind it all, but it just wasn't coming to mind, which was odd, because he usually came up with simple explanations where others made things complicated. He was starting to worry that the pneumonia had done worse things to him than give him a temporary fit of compassion, when Ulquiorra cleared his throat.

"Our plan is to visit this clinic, retrieve Aizen-sama's package, and purchase any medicine that is prescribed before returning to the park, correct?" The shorter Espada rubbed his fingers along his throat before digging into the bag for another cough drop.

Grimmjow looked up the street for their cab. "We've also got to eat something and buy some food for the woman," he said, having given up on figuring out the plus situation.

Ulquiorra was silent for a moment. "There is food in Las Noches. Why does Szayel think she needs additional supplies?"

"How do you think I know anything at all about cabs and receipts and phone numbers?" Grimmjow rubbed his eyes, starting to feel the lack of quality sleep. "And what do you think that information cost me?" he continued. "The woman wants sweet bread and red bean paste for dinner. Pretty sure we don't have that back home."

"You were not authorized to speak with her," Ulquiorra said.

Grimmjow smirked. "Has that ever stopped me before?"

Ulquiorra's frown deepened and gained a hint of accusation. "You're the one responsible for Frill, aren't you?"

It was Grimmjow's turn to frown. "For what?"

"The cat," Ulquiorra muttered. "I thought you were too ill to be the culprit, but apparently I was mistaken."

Grimmjow folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the bench. So she'd named the thing after all. Interesting, but not interesting enough to make this trip worthwhile. If Ulquiorra was feeling up to this kind of conversation, then he wasn't feeling sick enough to see a doctor, which made this even more a waste of time. "Don't know anything about a cat. Sorry."

"That is a lie, Grimmjow." Ulquiorra shook his head. "You gave the woman that scrawny pest, and," he cleared his throat, "you probably suggested the name, too," he finished in a rasp.

"Hn." Grimmjow shifted his weight to lean to one side and put his foot up on the wood. If Ulquiorra knew about the cat and the cat was still there, then Aizen didn't care one way or the other. So he wouldn't be getting in trouble for bringing it to the woman in the first place. And he had to admit it might be fun to own up to the deed, if only because the whole situation seemed to piss Ulquiorra off so much. "The cat, yeah. That was me." He scratched at his cheek idly. "But why'd she name it Frill?"

Ulquiorra turned away to watch a troop of school children cross the street at the next intersection. "Why does the woman do any number of inexplicable things? I have long since given up trying to understand the workings of her mind."

Speaking for so long turned out to be enough of a trigger for a coughing spell, and Grimmjow leaned back with a smile to watch his fellow Espada hunch over clutching his throat. After a few seconds it looked like Ulquiorra had moved from coughing to choking and, his smile evaporating, Grimmjow slapped his companion's back a few times, sending a glistening purple oval flying into the grass at their feet.

Ulquiorra remained curled over his knees, breathing hard and alternating between clearing his throat and groaning. He wrapped both hands around his neck as though that would help. "Fuck." The groans turned into something even more pathetic sounding.

Grimmjow found himself alternating between shock at hearing that word out of the tightest-laced arrancar in Las Noches and disbelief that Ulquiorra managed to nearly kill himself less than an hour out of the garganta. He listened to Ulquiorra for a moment. If he could get that kind of breathing accomplished, then whatever Ulquiorra had was more of a throat thing than a lung thing. Grimmjow wasn't sure that made it any more pleasant, considering the half-whimpers all this throat-clearing was causing. "Those are good for you, huh?"

Ulquiorra sat up slowly, his cheeks faintly flushed from exertion and something very close to an actual expression on his face. He looked down at the offending cough drop as though it were a tablet of poison actively seeking to harm him. "I would hate," he wheezed, "to experience something Szayel thought was _bad _for me."

"And that's probably the only thing we'll ever agree on," Grimmjow said. Now if only the cab would get here so they could get all this over with. He didn't look forward to the clinic, but it sure beat watching cars race by while Ulquiorra got over the whole homicidal cough drop thing.

Ulquiorra caught Grimmjow's eyes. "We were on the subject of motives, Grimmjow." What voice he'd started the day with was almost entirely gone. "Why did you give the woman a pet?"

Shit. Now he remembered why he'd planned on denying it all. Ulquiorra couldn't be allowed to know about the fucking birds. He'd never hear the end of it, especially not now that he was trapped in the same room with him for another week and a half. Grimmjow weighed his options and chose distraction. Ulquiorra's defeat via cough drop was bound to work in his favor here.

"You know," he started, "the woman's convinced she hurt your feelings. I tried telling her you didn't have any, but--"

Ulquiorra grabbed his wrist and dug his fingernails in. "Why the cat?" he whispered.

Well that was straightforward. Also serious, given how rarely the Cuarta used physical means of persuasion. Maybe the woman _had _hurt his feelings. At this rate, between the cough drops and their own mutual antagonism, they might kill each other before they even got to the clinic. Of course, there was an honorable way out of this situation, one which would completely defuse Ulquiorra's ire and restore a semblance of peace for the duration of this nightmarish trip.

Grimmjow gritted his teeth and prepared himself for the worst. "So what's this I hear about a cupcake?"

Before they could get into the sort of fight Grimmjow would relish if they were both in top condition, a honk brought their attention to the street, where a man sat in a car with his window rolled down.

"You the ones who called a cab?"

* * *

OMAKE: Meanwhile, in Las Noches:

Tesla's voice was scratchy as it drifted up from the huddled bundle of fabric on the bed in the corner. "Aa... Aaroniero..."

At the sound of his name, he turned around with a sigh, putting the newly rinsed basin on the table. This was the last fraccion on his list before delivering the prisoner's meal, and somehow this one always took longer than any three others combined. "Yes?" his high voice replied.

"If..." Tesla rolled over to face him, his good eye filled with tears. "If I die," he whispered, "t-tell Nnoitra-sama that I--" The wavering voice broke off with a wet gurgle as the medicine Tesla had just managed to choke down made a return trip onto the bed.

Aaroniero clenched his fists. Now he'd have to change the bed sheets. _Again_. "You aren't dying, Tesla," he ground out.

"I'm not?"

_Not yet, little piggy_, Aaroniero thought. _I'll kill you and be done with it, though, if you don't stop undoing all my work_. Still, he knew that better than to voice those thoughts. Instead, he came up with something that sounded reasonably kind. "No," his low voice said. "Though it probably feels like it."

Tesla wiped the purple remnants of medicine from his lips with the back of his hand and gagged a little more. This time, nothing came up. "I haven't," he hiccuped, "caught the numobacteria?"

"The what?"

"What Grimmjow had," he clarified. "I didn't catch it?"

Aaroniero remembered Szayel telling him about that, actually. He bit back a laugh at the thought of Nnoitra with his head under the kitchen faucet, his spoon-shaped hood channeling a steady stream of water all down his uniform. "Pneumonia doesn't catch, Tesla. It develops."

Tesla peeled off the medicine-soaked sheets and held them out toward the laundry bin. "From what?"

Aaroniero took the sheets and dumped them in with the rest, then motioned for Tesla to get up so he could collect the rest of the sodden bedding. It would help if he could remember what exactly Szayel had said about how one got pneumonia. He decided to approximate an answer. "From coughing. Probably."

Tesla stood shivering against the wall as he waited for the bed to be made. "Probably?" He reached for the basin and threw up the rest of the medicine and what was left of this morning's meal. Setting the basin back down, he groaned and then wiped his mouth.

"I'm not a scientist, all right?" Aaroniero fumed. "Or a doctor. Or even a sympathetic bystander. It _catches_," his low voice continued, "from _coughing_." His high voice took over as he jerked bedding into some semblance of order. "Are you done vomiting yet? You need to drink a replacement round of this medicine Szayel made."

Tesla moaned, his eye wide as he backed away from the table with the medicine. "No more," he whimpered. "Please."

"It's not my fault you can't keep it down," Aaroniero muttered. "Ggio and Lilinette only had to drink it once."

His eye locking in horror on the bottle of violet liquid, Tesla swallowed hard and stalled for time. "Nnoitra-sama isn't sick, is he?"

Aaroniero shook his head. "He won't open his door. I'm guessing that means he's fine." He shrugged. "Or dead." One look at Tesla's face told him that was the worst thing he could have said.

"Nooooooo!" Tesla wailed, making a break for the door. "I'm coming, Nnoitra-sama!"

Aaroniero reached out and grabbed the fraccion by the arm as he passed, yanking him away from the doorway and wrestling the sobbing wreck into the newly-made bed. "Forget it," his low voice murmured in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "I said nothing."

Tesla remained inconsolable.

"He's fine," Aaroniero tried again, this time with the high voice. "He's _fine!_" He sighed, settling in for what promised to be a long shift. If he had temples, he'd be massaging them.


	13. The Excellent Adventure, P2

Disclaimer: This is a site devoted to fan-fiction. I really don't own these characters or places, and am not making any money off of them. If I did, the manga would have shown at least a panel of Grimmjow so we could know he's alive.

Mini-Summary: 13: Barely-recovering Grimmjow and newly-sick Ulquiorra have quite a to-do list, but can they overcome the sheer variety of choices presented to them by a human supermarket? And what psychological trauma could an elevator possibly cause?

Note: Well here's part two. The rest should fit into a third part and not spill over into a fourth. Part two features more cat-like reactions and a hint as to how exactly Grimmjow got sick in the first place.

Also, I'll probably be renaming this story to better reflect the length, since this is clearly not the last chapter. Be on the lookout for the new name when chapter fourteen comes out.

* * *

Grimmjow and Ulquiorra's Excellent Adventure, Part Two

_Well this sucks_. Grimmjow closed his eyes and thought back to the woman's exact request. She'd said "sweet bread" and "red bean paste," he was sure of it. That had sounded specific enough earlier that morning. It was remarkably vague now that he was in the store. This was, in fact, worse than the assortment of reeking toiletries he'd been assigned to get on his last trip here with Szayel. Those had been easy: pick the ones that smelled the least. He'd ended up choosing something that smelled like rolled oats, because it was a scent he could deal with if he ever had to interact with the woman.

This was different. There was a whole aisle devoted to bread and only bread. Did she want it sliced or not? A big loaf or lots of little ones? White, wheat, rye, potato, sourdough, what? Nowhere did it say "sweet" on any of these packages. How was he supposed to know what would constitute "sweet" bread without eating some? And given how decidedly not-sweet those granola bars had tasted that once, he wasn't even sure he'd know "sweet" when it hit his tongue. Gritting his teeth, he eliminated the sourdough based on the name and then stared at the rest of the loaves lined up in their stupid plastic bags.

"What is _taking _so long, Grimmjow?"

Grimmjow looked over at the end of the aisle, to where Ulquiorra was slumped against a glassed-in display of something round and hollow and topped with garishly colored sauce and rainbow-hued chunks. Ulquiorra's pale skin was an interesting contrast, but he looked like he was wilting right there in the store. "What's taking so long is that I don't have a fucking clue what 'sweet bread' is," he snapped. Maybe it had something to do with oats. Should he get the "Oatnut Crunch?" Was that sweet?

Ulquiorra stirred, standing straight with what looked like a considerable amount of effort. "The name itself should be some indication," he said irritably. "How is it that with a name that specific you've managed to spend this long looking at a range of baked goods without locating the appropriate one?"

"Yeah? You give it a try, asshole." He stepped back and waved a hand at the bread. "None of them say 'sweet' and except for the sourdough and rye, they all smell more like yeast than anything else."

"Excuse me." An elderly woman tapped him on the shoulder and moved past him to give the bread a quick squeeze before snagging a loaf of french bread.

Grimmjow watched her put the bread into her basket. She seemed to know what was what in this aisle. He shrugged, watching Ulquiorra muster up the energy to come inspect the bread himself. It couldn't hurt to ask. Might even save the Cuarta some effort. "Hang on a sec," he called, taking a step after the woman as she started to amble away. "I'm looking for something 'sweet.'" He tried on a grin, hoping it would make his intrusion seem harmless. It wouldn't do at all if she swung her purse at him and screamed. "You got any suggestions?"

She eyed him from hair to boots and then slowly smiled, revealing yellow teeth. "Girlfriend need some comfort food?"

"Er... what?" He wasn't sure whether it was the question that made him feel uncomfortable or if it was Ulquiorra's deepening frown. Either way, he got the impression he'd done something he hadn't intended to do.

"I see," she said with a wink. "Not taken yet. You're a good looking lad. Give it time."

Grimmjow paused, sensing an unpleasantly predatory undercurrent. "Look, I just want the bread, huh? Which is sweetest?"

She reached past him again, this time brushing against his shoulder. She handed him a large bag of something called melon buns and a little red, rectangular card. "Call me," she murmured. "I'm not taken, either." She fluttered her bony fingers in his direction before disappearing down a different aisle.

His eye twitching, Grimmjow stood there holding the bag for a long moment while his mind worked through the exchange. He'd just been hit on by someone's grandmother. He made a good faith attempt to avoid gagging in the store, and looked down at the bag in his hand. It wasn't so much a loaf of bread as it was several smaller mini-loaves, about the size of oranges. He failed to see the connection to melons. Still, it was bread, and some randy old human woman had thought it was sweet. That was good enough for him. Grimmjow looked around for any observers and slid the card between two loaves of pumpernickel before grabbing a second bag of melon buns.

"Why didn't you keep the card?" Ulquiorra asked as they slowly made their way to the other side of the store. "She was obviously interested in you."

Grimmjow detected a fair amount of deadpan mockery going on, but decided not to make an issue of it. They'd already narrowly escaped a fight about birds and cupcakes, and the day was still young. Grimmjow figured that what energy Ulquiorra had needed to be preserved so he didn't end up having to carry the little prat the rest of the way. They could continue trying to snark each other to death when they got back to Las Noches. He glanced over to the side, saw that Ulquiorra was working up a second barb about the damn card, and interrupted before the shorter Espada could get started. "Look, I don't want anyone to connect it to me, okay? Can you imagine the fun Nnoitra would have with that?" He shuddered. He didn't ever want Nnoitra to have ammunition like that at his disposal. The taller Espada was enough of a pest _without _any misleading evidence. "Anyway, we wasted enough time on the bread, and that was only half the battle. At least with 'red bean paste' we've got a color to help us out."

The color, he soon discovered, was not as helpful as it sounded. Certainly it separated the red bean paste from the black bean paste, but beyond that, the red section of the aisle was lined with tins of varying sizes and labels, all purporting to contain the same thing. There was _whole _red bean paste, _mashed _red bean paste, _dried _red bean paste, _skinless _red bean paste--the meaning of which he'd rather not contemplate for very long... the list went on and on, and then there were the different sizes of container to consider on top of who made the red bean paste.

Grimmjow felt like hitting someone. Or something. He wasn't inclined to be picky about it at the moment. "Why do they have to make things so complicated?" he asked Ulquiorra. "Why can't there just be red bean paste? Or better yet, just bean paste? Huh?"

Ulquiorra scanned the aisle bleakly, and cleared his throat. "They're just trash," he said. "Perhaps this is how trash seeks to find fulfillment in life."

"With bean paste?" Grimmjow ignored the crinkle of another cough drop being unwrapped and grabbed a tin of each kind. He didn't have the time or patience to debate the merits of skinless vs. mashed, and the sooner they got out of here the sooner they could do the next thing, and the next, and so on until they were home. Anyway, the cab driver had said something about a timer and waiting fees. It would be best to get what they needed and go.

His bribe for the prisoner in hand, Grimmjow walked back down the aisle toward the checkout counters. This part of the operation he'd at least seen before. How bad could it be, anyway? Szayel hadn't had any problems with it except for the argument with the cashier about whether or not he could take the shopping cart with him. Grimmjow wasn't using a cart or even one of those little plastic baskets, so there wouldn't be an issue.

"Stop." Ulquiorra grabbed his sleeve for what felt like the tenth time that day, and Grimmjow narrowly refrained from smacking his mask-less head straight through a display of colorful plastic twisty straws. "You need to drink water."

"What?" Grimmjow turned to follow Ulquiorra's eyes toward row after row of clear bottles. His mouth dropped open. If the scope of the previous selections had bothered him, this one had him seriously worried about the warped mental faculties of the average human. Who needed this many kinds of water? Why did it matter where it came from or which group of people poured it in the bottle? Any water was more than they were used to in Hueco Mundo before Aizen had shown up, and _here _it rained all the time. Why were humans so damn hard to please?

Ulquiorra released his sleeve. "Szayel says you need to stay properly hydrated." He examined a bottle closely and continued speaking without looking up. "That means drinking lots of water."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the unnecessary explanation. "He said the same about you," he countered, "but I don't see you acting eager about it."

"It is both painful and difficult to swallow," Ulquiorra said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "_Why _would I want to drink anything?"

"Because Szayel said so." And in matters of illness, apparently Szayel was right up there with Aizen in terms of having to obey. "Remember? He said it was good--"

"For me, yes," Ulquiorra finished with an exhausted glower. "The same way gargling blue acid was 'good for me' last night."

From the tone, Grimmjow gathered Ulquiorra was feeling a touch bitter about that whole incident. He didn't blame the Cuarta one bit, but that still didn't change his mind about buying water. "Well, I'm not drinking a damn thing unless you do, too." He felt in his pocket for the folded up paper money. "'Sides, we've only got so much money. It's got to last."

Ulquiorra looked up hopefully. "Show me how much we have." He accepted the money and thumbed through it before handing it back with a disappointed sigh. "We'll have enough."

Grimmjow pointed toward the bottles on the bottom of the shelf. "Those are small. We could get two of them and not have to drink as much." If Ulquiorra didn't want water any more than he did--and that sounded like the case--then the offer would be accepted without hesitation. It was still technically following orders, after all, and Grimmjow had always felt that was good enough when there wasn't direct supervision.

After a moment, Ulquiorra picked up a different bottle. "Or we could get three times the amount of water in this one large bottle for the same price," he said, holding out the bottle.

Grimmjow took it and put it back on the shelf. More water sounded like a bad idea. Besides, having a fit of compassion was one thing, but if that fit was followed by voluntary sharing and going further than the letter of the law, well that was a sign of serious decline on his part. "I'm not sharing a water bottle with you. You think I want to get sick again?"

"I hardly think you would get sick just drinking after me, Grimmjow." He picked the bottle up again. "If it were as easy to become sick as that, you'd have gotten this sore throat a week ago."

"How?" Try as he might, Grimmjow could not think of a single instance of sharing a damn thing with Ulquiorra, and for good reason.

"I do taste my own cooking, you know."

Grimmjow doubted it. "Then why haven't you learned from any of those mistakes?"

Ulquiorra bristled at that. "I do not _make _mistakes in the kitchen. And you are changing the subject once again." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Szayel demands that we both drink water. We can afford one large bottle of water. We will share it," he concluded, pressing the bottle into Grimmjow's hands with something akin to a glare. "It isn't as though I will spit in it, Grimmjow."

"Fine!" He grabbed the bottle and set a deliberately rapid pace to the checkout so Ulquiorra would have to work to keep up with his longer stride.

"And even if I did," Ulquiorra panted stubbornly at his side, "Nnoitra was not affected by your saliva when you were sick." He leaned hard against the counter once they arrived, and cleared his throat a few times. "I don't see how you would be affected by mine."

"I said 'fine,'" Grimmjow muttered, handing a wad of money to the clerk and ignoring the odd look he was given in return. "You win. Shut up, already." If there was a problem with splitting the water between them, Szayel would have said something. And anyway, the gigai was supposed to be some kind of sickness-repelling miracle.

"Find everything okay?" the clerk asked as he rubbed their purchases over a beeping machine.

Grimmjow glared at him.

..........

"Welcome back," the cab driver said as he flipped a switch on the little box in his front passenger seat before leaving the parking lot. "We've got time for the post office before your one o'clock," he suggested.

Grimmjow looked up from where he was settling bread and tins of paste in the seat between himself and Ulquiorra. "My what?"

"Your one o'clock?" The cab driver raised his eyebrows, apparently trying to jog his memory. "Your appointment at the clinic," he tried again. "At one."

"Oh." He handed Ulquiorra the water. "Sure. Whatever." He'd started this trip by handing the man a wad of addresses and a list of places they had to go today. When he'd said he didn't care what order they did stuff in, he'd been serious. At least the man wasn't trying to make small talk anymore. The cabbie's small talk may have been more lucid than the woman's, but it wasn't any more welcome.

He watched Ulquiorra twist off the bottle's cap and take several slow, painful-looking swallows before handing it across the seat, about a third empty. With a sigh, Grimmjow took the bottle and drank as near to the same amount as he could get. He handed it back and met Ulquiorra's questioning look with an expectant one of his own. "Finish it."

Ulquiorra shook his head and pushed the bottle back toward him.

"Look, it was your stupid idea to get the big bottle, so now you're going to have to drink the extra." Grimmjow pressed the bottle into Ulquiorra's hands and held it there. "Serves you right for threatening to force feed me that once."

"I don't want any more," Ulquiorra insisted.

Grimmjow shrugged. "And I didn't want any in the first place. Payback's a bitch. Drink up."

Ulquiorra stared at him for a long moment, his customary frown replaced by skepticism bordering on anger. Finally, he made a small concession. "I would be willing to drink half of what remains on the condition that you do the same." After Grimmjow's nod, he tipped the bottle back and took a few more swallows before eyeballing the contents and holding the bottle out again.

Grimmjow finished it, and screwed the cap back on. "There. We're 'hydrated.' Happy now?"

"Not partic--" Ulquiorra's voice broke halfway through the word and he shook his head with a pained grimace instead of trying to finish the sentence. He looked at the bag of cough drops for a moment, and then shoved it into the shopping bag with the bread. After a half-hearted look out the window, he wedged himself into the corner of the car door and closed his eyes. "Tell me when we get there," he croaked.

Grimmjow watched him for a few blocks, wondering why exactly the Cuarta was so tired. He hadn't been getting any more sleep than Ulquiorra had been, and he was able to at least keep his eyes open. Maybe that red stuff Szayel had given him was still making him sleepy. If it was strong enough to knock Ulquiorra out through his own coughing fits, it was probably long-lasting, too. Maybe it even made him tired in shifts. That would at least explain why Ulquiorra had started off with more energy than he had now.

"Here we are," the cab driver said, pulling up to a curb and flipping the switch back to the timer function. "Package delivery is on the tenth floor."

Grimmjow looked out the window and up the front of an exceptionally tall building. _Oh, hell no_. "Tenth?"

"Yep."

"...As in ten flights of stairs?" Grimmjow could feel his lungs seizing up just thinking about it. He'd probably die part way up and not be discovered for days.

The cab driver shrugged. "Or take the elevator."

Grimmjow was getting very tired of this human tendency to toss out words like cab and phone and sweet bread and then pretend they weren't at all out of the ordinary. He took a deep breath as a calming measure to keep himself from physically taking his frustration out on the cab driver. His reply was still a bit on the crazed side. "Take the _what?_"

The man turned around in the seat as though the full force of his incredulous expression just couldn't be conveyed through the rear view mirror alone. He spoke slowly enough to be insulting. "You can take... the elevator... to your floor."

Finally fed up, Grimmjow threw his hands up in the air with a growl. "I don't know what that _means!_" he shouted.

"You don't know what an--"

"Fuck it," he snarled, grabbing the receipt and mashing at the seat belt until it released him. "Fuck your stupid human words for things that shouldn't exist." Grimmjow threw a fistful of money over the seat at the man and got out of the car. "Stay here with him. If I'm not back by tomorrow morning, send in a rescue party." He slammed the car door for good measure and stalked into the building.

Inside, it was cold. Very cold. And slightly breezy. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort to figure out, Grimmjow looked around for something that resembled stairs. There. Off in that little corner, a sign by a door showed a picture of them. He walked over and opened the door. It led to a set of railed, concrete stairs that zigzagged upwards. It seemed he was at the bottom of a pit full of the things.

The door closed behind him with a dull clang. Where in the main building it was cold and bright, here it was hot, dim, and stifling. He wondered briefly whether these stairs were designed to make people not want to use them. Given all the other weird human shit he'd put up with today, that wouldn't surprise him one bit. Grimmjow gritted his teeth and started climbing.

By the third flight, he was blindly putting one foot in front of the other and using a death-grip on the railing to keep his forward momentum while planning how best to brutally murder the fool who had created these stairs. At least in Las Noches most of the stairs were open to the air and gave you a nice view of the surrounding area and how far you'd come. These were just crammed in a vertical tube with the occasional stair-less oasis to give false hope that the torture was over.

At the fifth of these landings, Grimmjow sat down and tried to figure out how to breathe again. Fuck Szayel for making him do this. If the Octava was so busy with all the sick arrancar, he should have enjoyed a break. The bastard already knew about cabs and phones and shit, and hadn't been stuck in bed with pneumonia for the last three weeks. This should have been _him _dying in a cement pit with fucking stairs lining the sides. Grimmjow told himself that he was halfway up, had climbed half the stairs already, and should therefore be pleased with himself. It didn't work. The smarter part of him came right back with the fact that having done half of this meant there was another equal portion of this hell left to be done.

By the time he collapsed halfway up the seventh flight, Grimmjow realized he wasn't content to just be swearing at Szayel for this situation, and moved his thoughts on to someone more deserving of the abuse. _Fuck Aizen and this stupid package, anyway_, he thought. With his creepy "thank-you"s and that dangling bang of of his. He ought to take a pair of scissors to that bang the way he'd chopped off all of Il Forte's hair that once. Grimmjow tried to control his breathing and get back to his feet, but all that happened was that the bellows sounds he was making got louder and he slid down another step. He sent his thoughts directly to Aizen on the off chance that the man was truly omniscient and would overhear his thoughts, strike him down, and put him out of his misery. _That's right, you voyeuristic turd! Fuck you!_

When he wasn't stricken down where he sprawled, Grimmjow groaned. It figured that the one time he'd welcome a rush of obliterating reiatsu it didn't come. Since his lungs were only slightly on fire by this point, he grabbed the railing and pulled himself to his feet. A glance upward revealed the same view that had greeted him at the beginning of the stairs. He wasn't sure where he'd gotten the idea that there was false hope to be had. No, there was nothing in the layout to give hope of any kind. These were truly designed by a sadist.

After what seemed like an incredibly painful chunk of forever, Grimmjow dragged himself up onto a landing marked by what looked like the number ten when the spots finally cleared his vision. Since he had some time to compose himself before trying to get the package, Grimmjow settled into another barrage of mental swearing, this time directed at an even better target than Aizen. _And fuck that shinigami, too,_ he thought, even his thoughts seeming to come in short gasps. She had started it all, and so what if she did have nice tits. This wasn't worth it.

He looked up at the stairs to even higher levels of the building and wondered what kind of masochist would put himself through that. Ten flights was enough. He couldn't imagine going up fifteen. Or twenty. He'd like to see that fucking bitch of a shinigami do it, though. It would serve her right. She could take her tits and her ass and her feline grace and just shove it all, because he was officially going to kill her when this was over. No sparring session-turned-gropefest was worth this bullshit, no matter _how _good her fingernails felt clawing at his back.

Grimmjow leaned back against the concrete and wished it was cold in here like it had been in the main building. The only time he could remember his lungs burning like this was when he still had the pneumonia. And he was an Espada, dammit. It should take something more than stairs to do this to him. Stairs alone should not be this difficult, no matter how recently he'd been sick.

He gauged his breathing and figured he no longer looked or sounded like he was near death, even if he still felt like it. This was just going to have to be presentable enough. Grabbing a railing, he hoisted himself to his feet and opened the door. A blissful rush of cold air hit him in the face and he stood there for a moment, savoring the first decent thing he'd experienced on this trip.

A quick glance around the room revealed obviously fake plants, a carpet the color of puke, and a long desk behind which a woman sat staring at the ceiling. Grimmjow made his way to the desk, smoothing out the receipt as he walked. This part should be even easier than the checkout counter was at the store. Hand the paper over, say something about a package, and then leave. Simple.

"How can I help you, sir?"

Grimmjow blinked. She'd thrown the order off. He was supposed to give her the paper first. _Ah, fuck it_, he thought. _I'll just go with whatever happens_. "Here." He sucked in a breath, surprised that breathing was still such a struggle. "There's a package," he wheezed. "I want it."

She looked down at the receipt he'd placed on the desk, straightened her glasses, and walked out of sight into a back room, her boredom apparently unrelieved by this request. In a moment, she reappeared with a smallish cardboard box and a binder. "Sign here," she droned.

Grimmjow frowned. Did he sign his name? Aizen's? Did it matter? The woman hadn't said anything about signatures, only about exchanging the paper for the package. Of course, she hadn't said a damn thing about stairs, either. What was the kanji for Aizen, anyway? He'd never cared enough to ask. And did he put a -sama at the end? Was a first name required?

The woman cleared her throat impatiently and drummed her fingers on the box.

He grabbed the pen and scribbled his own name down, then scratched it out and wrote Jack Grimm. He hesitated with the pen in his hand, vaguely remembering an argument about which order the two fake names went in. Was it Jack Grimm? Or Grimm Jack? He couldn't recall what Szayel had ended up writing in the blanks on the clinic paperwork. It hadn't mattered to him at the time.

Apparently eager for the exchange to be completed so she could go back to staring at the ceiling, the woman snatched the pen out of his hand, preventing him from debating any longer or trying to re-correct the signature. "Your package, sir." She left the box on the desk and shoved the receipt into a folder.

Grimmjow picked up the box. For its size, it was pretty heavy. He turned it over in his hands, wondering what was inside. If he opened it, could he get it closed again and looking just like this? Probably not. He shook the box and heard a dull thumping sound from its contents jostling around. It was something solid, whatever it was. Would Aizen notice if the box had been opened? Probably yes. But would he _care?_ That was the real question, after all. Grimmjow stared at the box for a long moment, his fingers itching to tear it open. Unfortunately, as much as it pained him to admit it, Aizen was very likely to care. And he might even go so far as to smile at him, pat his arm, and say something like "thank you for opening the package for me, Grimmjow. I am pleased by your concern for others." That thought was enough to quell his curiosity about the contents of the box. No amount of satisfied curiosity was worth being thanked in public again.

"Anything else, sir?"

Grimmjow turned back to face the desk. He was finally getting some semblance of a normal breathing pattern back, and was in no mood to screw it up again by another trip in the stairwell, particularly if there was a human invention designed to bypass stairs entirely. "Actually, yes. I hate stairs. I think I'm going to give this 'elevator' thing a try."

The woman looked at him with a lack of expression that rivaled Ulquiorra's typical blankness in a way that Grimmjow found impressive. They stared at each other for a moment.

"So where is it?" he finally asked.

She pointed. "Behind you, to the right."

He heard a *ding* from that area, and spun around to see what had caused it. A door was sliding open and a man stepped out into the room. The door closed again. Grimmjow studied the man as they passed each other and saw that he wasn't even the slightest bit out of breath. That had to be an elevator then.

If it would get a man from floor one to floor ten without breaking a sweat, then this elevator thing couldn't be all that bad. Grimmjow looked for a handle, saw none, and then noticed a pair of buttons to the side. Well. He wanted to go down, and there was a button shaped like an arrow pointing down. It didn't get any simpler. He liked simple.

Grimmjow pushed the button, and then cautiously stepped into what appeared to be a tiny, carpeted closet with a metal railing around the walls. Some soft and terribly dull music was playing in the closet, and someone had just sprayed perfume that smelled like dying lilacs. He saw a panel on the wall near the door with easily four times the number of buttons that had been on the phone. Taking a guess, he pressed one near the bottom. It lit up in a cheery yellow color.

Suddenly, the little closet lurched downward, sending his stomach lurching in the opposite direction. Grimmjow yelped and clutched at a railing, dropping the package in his scramble for purchase. "Make it stop, make it stop!" He mashed the buttons randomly, and happy yellow lights came on all over the panel. The closet screeched to a halt with a *ding*, sending him crashing to the floor, and the doors opened calmly as though nothing was at all wrong. The music played on as he sat on the floor wondering what the hell had just happened. Through the open doors, an assortment of people sitting in a lounge area turned to look at him curiously.

It took him a moment to appreciate the lack of motion, and then he resolved to get out of this elevator before the doors trapped him inside again. He'd take the stairs over this shit any day, even if he did have to carry this tempting little box with him. As soon as he'd managed to grab the package, though, the doors slid shut and he was again hurtling downwards, the contents of the box the last thing on his mind. "No!" he wailed, clawing at the doors. "Let me out!" There was a jerk that tossed him back off his feet, followed by a *ding* and the opening of doors.

Once again, he didn't have time to grab the package and get out before the closet started moving. This, he decided while clinging to the railing, was infinitely worse than the stairs. Sure, he could breathe, but if the jerking motions didn't stop soon he was going to vomit all over this god-awful little closet. It was like being on that medicine again, only without the seafood. And instead of carrying his pleas to some master control room like the one in Szayel's laboratory, this thing only bounced his voice back to him. It was enough to inspire claustrophobia.

He counted seven stops and five unsuccessful attempts to flee before the closet finally deposited him on a floor he recognized as the one he'd come in on. There were still lights on in the buttons at the top of the panel, and Grimmjow did some quick reasoning about the potential direction the closet would take next. Going back up was about the last thing he wanted, next on the list to this little incident being witnessed by anyone who could identify him. Grabbing the package with a speed borne of desperation, Grimmjow stumbled out into the main lobby wide-eyed and reeling. The nightmarish contraption sent out a farewell *ding* and rattled upward to capture some other poor, unsuspecting victim.

_This package_, he thought, glaring at the box in question, _had better be damn important_. Grimmjow took a precursory look around the lobby to make sure the floor wasn't moving and to pinpoint the nearest familiar-looking exit. He felt a shiver as he noticed additional elevators on the other walls. They were everywhere. Waiting. As with that first stop, people were staring at him as though it wasn't usual to be this jittery getting out of one of those things. The package gripped tightly under one arm, Grimmjow tried to be nonchalant as he picked his way around the leather furniture in the closest thing to a direct route he could manage while occasionally veering dizzily to either side. He'd just about gotten his eyes to focus properly and stop making shit up about his surroundings when there was a loud *ding* just to his left. Spooked, Grimmjow abandoned all efforts at blending in and bolted for the door.

* * *

OMAKE: Gentlemen, Place Your Bets:

"So how d'ya think they're doin', Aizen-sama?"

Aizen leaned back on his couch and took a sip of tea before settling a slip of paper in his book. He'd been over it several times already, but since he hadn't had much opportunity to interact with Grimmjow of late, it wouldn't hurt to keep it all fresh in his mind.

He reached over to the plate of cookies on the couch between them and selected a pink one. "I'm sure they're fine, Gin," he murmured. "After all, between the two of them they have both the energy and the logical reasoning to complete this task."

"Huh." Gin brushed crumbs off his lap and reached over to pour more tea. "Tousen says he'll open the box."

Aizen let out a breath that was calmer than he felt. "I doubt that, Gin." Grimmjow was curious enough to do it, yes, but Ulquiorra was there with him. That alone should prevent any tampering.

"Tousen's got 5000 yen on it."

"And you?" Aizen asked mildly, accepting the newly filled mug of tea.

"Oh, you know I'm not the bettin' kind," Gin lied. "What'd ya order?"

Aizen smiled, letting the wagers fall out of the conversation. He thought in unlikely Kaname had placed any bets at all, though he wouldn't put it past Gin. "I thought Ulquiorra would like a food encyclopedia, and Dr. Kazdin has a new book out on defiant children."

There was a long pause. "Think he'll be okay?"

He looked over at Gin, a touch startled by the genuine concern he heard in the question. "Why wouldn't he be? Proper parenting is designed not to be harmful."

"No, Ulquiorra." Gin took a gulp of tea. "I mean, if he was bad enough that Grimmjow felt sorry for 'im..."

Aizen paused, and then took another cookie. "I'm sure they're both fine, Gin," he repeated, almost more for himself than for Gin. "This might even be the start of a budding new friendship between my two favorite Espada."


	14. The Excellent Adventure, P3

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach or any of the characters/settings therein. I'm not making any money at all on this, and have no intentions of making money on it. Please don't get lawsuit happy.

Mini-Summary: 14: The stunning conclusion of Grimmjow and Ulquiorra's harrowing trip through Karakura, including the horrors of the clinic, some ice cream, and a cameo appearance from Ishida! What does Ulquiorra have? Will Grimmjow learn about the cupcake? And what's this about their gigais?

Note: Sorry for the sucky new title. They won't let me make it long enough to do what I wanted, and it's got to at least be recognizable as the same story. And wow, this is the longest chapter I've written for any of my fics here. But I really wanted to squeeze it into a third part and not a fourth. Don't expect similar lengths in the future, unless the spacing works out like this again.

New Note: Made a change to the cab scene.

* * *

Grimmjow and Ulquiorra's Excellent Adventure, Part Three

Grimmjow had almost managed to convince himself that he was dreaming the entire day's events, and that the occasional jostle from the cab rounding a bend or hitting a fucking hole in the shitty human-built street was that lying bastard Szayel trying to wake him up for more "good for you" medicine... when the movements suddenly stopped. Confused, he cracked open an eye and saw that he'd been wrong about the dream.

"Well," the cab driver was saying, fiddling again with that meter box in his passenger seat, "that's about it for me today. I went off duty thirty-four minutes ago, and we're here." He looked in the rearview mirror. "At the clinic," he clarified unnecessarily, "for your appointment with a doctor at one o'clock."

Grimmjow resisted the urge to leap forward over the seatback and strangle the man for his condescending little speech. As the day'd gone on, the cab driver had become more and more like Aizen and Szayel all rolled into one irritating human shape. "I got it," he growled. He reached over and gave Ulquiorra a poke in the ribs. "Oi. We're here."

Ulquiorra didn't respond other than to groan softly and mash his cheek harder against the window. Grimmjow wasn't sure how Ulquiorra had managed to get so soundly asleep in a position as uncomfortable as that, especially given the angle of his neck and the frequency of these so-called "pot holes." Still, asleep or not, this was the main reason they'd gone through all the other hell, and Ulquiorra wasn't ditching.

The cab driver cleared his throat, and Grimmjow looked up at him, entertaining the notion that the man would come down with a brutal case of whatever the hell Ulquiorra had. "What now?"

The man looked vaguely smug about something. "You two going to make it on your own?"

"Bwuh?" Why would they need backup? Was there something even nastier in the clinic than all those sick children from last time?

The cab driver handed him a piece of paper. "I'm going off duty. You'll have to call another cab after your appointment. Total's 27,669 yen."

Grimmjow tried to remember what the total had been for the woman's meal, and could only recall that it was a minuscule amount compared to this cab fare. Still, Ulquiorra had counted the money back in the store. If the Cuarta said they had enough, they had enough. He might not like Ulquiorra, but he did trust his judgment there.

He handed about two thirds of the wad of bills over the seat to the man and set himself again to waking up Ulquiorra. "Come on, already, 'Cory.' It's time to see the doctor." Grimmjow jabbed his finger back into Ulquiorra's ribs, harder than before.

"Your change."

Grimmjow looked up, distracted. What was this about change now? He was fine. Didn't need to change a damn thing, unless it meant Ulquiorra would start cooperating and wake his pasty ass up. He couldn't be one hundred percent positive, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been this pathetic when he was sick. The cab driver was looking at him expectantly, holding out a few bills from the wad he'd been handed. Grimmjow took the money and stuffed it in his pocket with the rest. "Uh, thanks."

Finally getting too impatient to try irritating the Cuarta awake, Grimmjow slipped an arm through the handles of their shopping bag, grabbed the package he'd nearly died retrieving, and got out of the car. He walked around to the other side and had to bite back a laugh at the sight of Ulquiorra's face pressed into the window. He jerked open the door and pulled Ulquiorra to his feet by a grip on the other arrancar's collar before he could tumble half-asleep onto the street. "Come on," he muttered. "You can sleep later."

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Ulquiorra rasped groggily, reaching up to push at Grimmjow's hands as he started waking up. He coughed. "Let go."

Grimmjow complied, keeping an arm around Ulquiorra's shoulder to steady him as the cab drove off. The Cuarta felt warmer than was normal. Maybe warm enough to qualify for a fever, though Grimmjow wasn't sure how warm Ulquiorra'd have to be for that. It was close enough contact just keeping Ulquiorra upright, and he didn't relish the thought of smushing a hand against his face like Szayel had him. If Ulquiorra was actually running a fever, the doctor would say something.

To his surprise, instead of handing him a clipboard with loads of paperwork on it and telling him to go sit down and fill it in, the woman at the desk nodded at him with a smile. "Cory Shipper?" she asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"He is," Grimmjow said, pointing. "I'm Jack. Where's the paperwork?"

"I have it here all filled out from when you came by earlier, sir." She wiggled the clipboard briefly before smiling again. "You can go on back. Exam room 12..."

Grimmjow blinked, not sure he had heard right. When the cab driver had dropped them off here that morning to make an appointment, he'd filled out tons of paperwork. It had given him a headache. And now they were telling him he didn't have to do it a second time? Either things were really starting to look up or something dreadful was coming down the chute to make up for this ray of sunshine.

"...a touch early," the receptionist was saying in that bouncy manner that made him want ruin her day, "but the room's open, so you can wait there. Doctor'll see you shortly!"

"'Kay." He steered Ulquiorra in that direction, both thankful that he didn't have to hear kids barfing in the main waiting room and worried about what was going to go wrong as revenge for this blessing. Maybe he'd be thanked for something. He could stand that sort of drawback if it meant he wouldn't be threatened by needles or some shit like that.

Just as with the post office building, the exam room was cold. Really, really cold. Either that, or Ulquiorra was running enough of a fever to be shaking in his seat. For his part, Grimmjow didn't care which was the case. He was too busy being glad it wasn't him getting all the attention this time. Ulquiorra had been none too happy about the blood pressure cuff, or about being stood up on a scale and weighed like livestock. And while seeing the great and mighty Cuarta Espada squirm when the nurse shoved a little pointy thermometer in his ear was entertaining, even that had paled in comparison to the vast expanse of unexplainable _stuff_ crammed into this tiny room.

And so now, instead of mocking Ulquiorra, he was busy channeling curiosity about Aizen's forbidden box onto a safer, more easily accessible set of objects. Having finished with a glossy poster featuring several horrible things that could go wrong with the inside of an ear--which poster was possibly the cause of Ulquiorra's discomfort when having his temperature taken--Grimmjow moved on to the next item to catch his eyes: a glass jar with what looked like cotton swabs inside it. He'd never seen cotton swabs this big. The things were huge. He took one out and laid it out on his palm. Longer than his hand, and way too big to fit in an ear. He didn't even want to know where this was supposed to go.

There was a crinkling of cough drops being removed from a pocket and unwrapped, and an irritated sigh. "Don't break anything, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow ignored him, now chewing on an oversized popsicle stick. These at least, he knew about. He'd had one rammed down his throat last time he was here, and he seemed to recall a spoon being shoved in his mouth before that. At a meeting, or something. It was kind of a blur. Despite his bad history with them, the slab of wood was fun to gnaw on, and he bet it would be even more fun to tap it on a table in Ulquiorra's otherwise deathly quiet room. He stuck an extra one in his pocket for later.

Next, he reached into a little cardboard box and pulled out a wrinkled plastic glove. It wasn't as thick as Szayel's lab gloves had been, nor as long. In fact, it was downright tiny. He gave it a pull and was intrigued by the way it stretched and the faint noise it made when it shrank again. He tried it on, tugging at it to get his fingers all the way to the tips of the glove. Given how on edge Ulquiorra had been since arriving at the clinic, Grimmjow imagined he could have some fun with this. He smiled and grabbed the cuff of the glove, stretching it as far as it would go before releasing it with a loud *snap!*

Ulquiorra jumped clear out of the chair at the sound, and settled back down audibly grinding his teeth. "Would you just sit down already?"

Grimmjow laughed and spit the splintering popsicle stick into the trash where he'd tossed the cotton swab. The glove followed it into the can as he continued to make his way around the room. This place was actually kind of fun when you weren't too sick to appreciate it. It was too bad Ulquiorra was preoccupied with feeling miserable and worrying about what kinds of horrors awaited him when the human version of Szayel finally showed up. Grimmjow had so far refrained from telling him that this doctor wasn't so bad. It was just too much fun to watch this way.

And his wandering around the tiny, frigid room seemed to be adding to Ulquiorra's anxiety in a very entertaining manner. Grimmjow wondered what it would take to elicit an actual, physical reprimand from Ulquiorra. He'd managed it earlier just mentioning the cupcake thing, but Ulquiorra's energy levels had plummeted since then. He decided to save the cabinets for last and paused in front of a little plastic box mounted on the wall. He recognized the symbol on it from poking around Szayel's lab as a Privaron Espada, but had never asked about it then, just in case Szayel had decided to demonstrate the answer. He'd always had a suspicion about the meaning anyway.

Forcing that month out of his mind entirely, he traced the symbol with his finger before flipping the lid up. It was too high to see over the top and he didn't feel like jumping, so he settled for further irritating Ulquiorra by asking about the word printed below the symbol. "Hey, Ulquiorra, what's 'biohazardous' mean?"

"It means _don't touch it_." Ulquiorra wrestled himself out of the chair again and crossed the small room to plant a death grip on Grimmjow's forearm. "Sit back down," he said, increasing the pressure until he was sure it would leave a bruise, "and _leave_ the doctor's things _alone!_"

"Ow!" Surprised at his sudden success in provoking a response, Grimmjow let the lid fall shut again and held his free hand up away from the box, wincing. "Okay, okay!" Once released, he rubbed his arm to restore blood flow. "Sheesh. You could have shown this sort of energy when we first got out of the store instead of curling up like a little human brat in the cab and sleeping against the window. Bet the whole of Karakura saw your drooling face pressed up against that glass. Hope they took pictures."

"I was not drooling," Ulquiorra whispered venomously, his voice almost entirely used up by his earlier volume, but still holding a promise of violence.

Despite the fact that Ulquiorra was right and that his hand had now returned to its stranglehold on Grimmjow's already-throbbing arm, Grimmjow smirked. It had taken him nearly an hour in this waiting room to get Ulquiorra this riled up, and he wasn't about to let it go now. "Yeah you were," he lied.

He wrapped his free hand around Ulquiorra's wrist and tried without success to pry the other arrancar off his arm. "It was probably all that dreaming about cupcakes that did it." Ulquiorra's grip tightened and Grimmjow increased his own efforts with a pained scowl, wondering idly how much clenching strength their gigais afforded them. It would suck to leave the clinic in a splint if he prodded Ulquiorra too far. "You know the ones," he continued, unable to back down. "With those pretty sprinkles that match your ey-owow_ow!_" he yowled, folding over his captured arm and smacking at Ulquiorra with the other. "Are you trying to _break _it?!"

"Yes."

The door to the exam room swung open while they were still grappling with each other, and a slender man in a lab coat walked in, his attention on the clipboard he was holding. "And how are we doing today?"

They froze for a moment, and then whipped their arms back to their sides a half second before the doctor looked up at them.

When Ulquiorra remained silent, Grimmjow started feeling his arm for fractures. Either the gigais weren't equipped for bone-crushing grips, or Ulquiorra was lying about his intentions. Whichever was the case, he was glad nothing was broken. "How are we doing today?" he repeated under his breath. "Well we're here, aren't we? How do you think we're doing?"

The doctor chuckled, and then set the clipboard on the counter Grimmjow had just been exploring. "I'm glad to see you feeling so energetic, Grimm-san."

Grimmjow scowled, remembering the stairs. "I'm energetic? That's news to me."

"Well, considering the last I saw of you, you were in pretty bad shape..." The doctor patted the examining table. "Hop up so I can listen to your lungs."

"I'm not sick anymore." Grimmjow folded his arms over his chest and stayed put. He wasn't interested in having cold metal shoved under his shirt today. "I don't have to sit on your paper tablecloth or have you--"

"Do it." Ulquiorra grabbed a fold of skin at the back of his arm and tightened his fingers in a hold that didn't hurt yet but threatened to start hurting a lot if Grimmjow didn't obey. "Now."

Grimmjow jerked his arm away and clambered up on the table with a growl. For this, he would dedicate the remaining time in quarantine to discovering the truth behind the cupcake Ulquiorra was so desperate that he not know about, and then he'd tell fucking _Nnoitra _all about it. That would do the trick. He wasn't sure who had the bigger mouth, Nnoitra or Tesla, but between the two of them, all of Las Noches would know within a day. If it was a good enough story, it would be everywhere within a few hours. The only way to spread something quicker was to tell Lilinette.

"Okay, Grimm-san. You know the drill. Deep breath." The icy cold pad of the stethoscope moved a few inches. "Again." A pause, followed by more shifting of cold spots. "And once more." The doctor moved round to the front. "Last time. Good." The icy pad withdrew. "You sound wonderful. Now remember," the doctor continued as Grimmjow scrambled off the table with a glare at Ulquiorra. "Plenty of fluids, and lots of rest. If you overdo it, you'll risk a relapse."

Grimmjow frowned. "Is ten flights of stairs overdoing it?"

The doctor's cheerful expression flickered off momentarily before coming back full force. "Yes. I'd say so. That's what elevators are for."

"Oh." Grimmjow looked around the room to avoid either of the sets of eyes casting incredulous stares at him. "Well I, uh, won't do it again." Not the stairs _or_ the elevator. One put him at risk for more of that god-awful medicine and the constant presence of Szayel, and the other would probably give him nightmares.

"I should hope not," Ulquiorra muttered. "All we need is for you fall ill again."

The doctor sighed. "Well," he said, looking at Ulquiorra now. "You would be the cousin, Shipper-san, I presume."

"Yeah," Grimmjow interjected. "He's sick as a dog, and probably needs a shot. Or three. Maybe one in his a--"

Ulquiorra cleared his throat and sent an elbow into Grimmjow's ribcage. "I'm here because of a sore throat that makes it hard to swallow," he rasped. "And coughing."

The doctor verified the symptoms as matching what Ulquiorra had told the nurse. "Ah, well let's get you up on the table, then, and I'll take a look." Once Ulquiorra was settled--and looking decidedly nervous Grimmjow noticed gleefully--the man approached him with light and a tongue depressor. "M-hm," he mumbled, turning the light in a few different directions. "Fever, difficulty swallowing, sore throat with occasional cough... and those tonsils. That's strep, all right." He stood up straight and threw the tongue depressor in the trash before making a few notes on the clipboard. After sliding his pen into the pocket of his lab coat, the doctor withdrew a cotton swab from the canister. "I'll take a culture for the labs, just to be sure."

"Labs? A culture?" Ulquiorra asked, his eyes fixed on the offending cotton swab while his mind fixed on Szayel and every disaster that could come of the Octava having a piece of him to study in that lab.

The doctor paused. "It's a very simple procedure," he reassured. "It doesn't hurt a bit. In fact, it rather tickles." He smiled. "Open your mouth, please." When Ulquiorra reluctantly complied, the doctor twirled the end of the cotton swab all along the back of his throat, prompting a coughing fit and the throat-clutching that had become Ulquiorra's primary reflex as the day wore on.

"That'll be all for that. Are there any other symptoms, Shipper-san?" The doctor slid the swab into a plastic bag drawn out of one of the drawers. "Strep is sometimes accompanied by other ailments, and additional symptoms might give us a leg up in finding something."

Ulquiorra glanced at some of the other tools, sharp metal ones, in the drawer and at the biohazard bin, spent a second calculating, and then shook his head. "That's all. The throat. The coughing."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Grimmjow contradicted. "You've got all the energy of slug today. I've had to drag you everywhere just so you wouldn't fall over."

"Oh?" The doctor looked intrigued, and Grimmjow almost regretted saying anything. "Are you experiencing any unusual exhaustion, Shipper-san?" He placed his hands underneath Ulquiorra's jaw and frowned. "Any nausea?"

"Is that serious?" Ulquiorra asked, avoiding the question.

There was a pause as the doctor interpreted Ulquiorra's reaction and then took the pen back out of his pocket to make another notation on the clipboard. "I'll order some blood work as well. Sit still a moment. A nurse will be right in to do that." The doctor left the room, clipboard and cotton swab in hand.

"Blood work, huh?" Grimmjow was terribly glad he was on the other side of the room from Ulquiorra and therefore safe from any retaliation. He didn't know what all this "blood work" entailed, but he was sure Ulquiorra wouldn't be pleased. Ulquiorra hadn't like the blood pressure cuff, after all, and this was probably something similar. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "That sounds fun."

Ulquiorra leveled a miserable glare at him.

"For the record," Grimmjow said, "I didn't _mean _to do that." He fidgeted in the seat and wondered if an actual apology was in order. Nah. Apologies weren't his style, no matter how responsible he was for this "blood work" stuff being suggested. "But you know it couldn't hurt, right? A little squeeze on the arm. To see if there's something else. Szayel would probably say it was..." Grimmjow let his sentence trail off, not needing Ulquiorra's exhausted shudder to realize it was not the phrase to mention at the moment. Maybe it was time to remind him how nice this doctor was compared to Szayel.

Thankfully--in his mind at least--the nurse from before returned, wearing gloves, before he could dig himself any deeper. "All right, sir," she said with a beaming smile, "we're going to draw a few vials for analysis. We'll be done in a minute or two if you've got good veins." She wheeled in a low, rolling table set with five thumb-sized plastic containers and a syringe attached to a thin tube.

"Oh, shit, that's a needle." Grimmjow scrambled out of his chair to increase the distance as much as possible without leaving the room. For some reason, probably a combination of guilt and pity, he didn't take off for the street at a dead run. "I was kidding about the shots," he mumbled. "Really. He doesn't need 'em. He's fine. Totally energetic. Not at all like a slug. He was doing cartwheels in here before you came in."

The nurse looked at him, practically oozing concern. "Do you need to wait outside while I draw the blood, sir?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

Grimmjow took a deep breath. "Yes," he said with a nod, moving toward the door and thankful for the permission to abandon wide-eyed Ulquiorra to his fate. "Yes, I do."

"No, he doesn't," Ulquiorra argued, his voice trembling slightly. He sounded almost desperate.

Grimmjow froze, his hand still stretched out toward the door handle. He willed himself to open the door and wait outside. Nothing happened. _Damn this stupid compassion shit_. He wanted out of here, away from the needle. Anything that gave the apathetic Cuarta the shivers was something he wanted _nothing _to do with. He set to work convincing himself that it was more a sign of bravery than sympathy to stay put and watch this needle business take place. It wasn't like this was Szayel, after all. Hell, it would probably be over before it started. After a long moment, his hand fell back to his side.

"On second thought," he lied, "I'll be fine right here." He lowered himself stiffly into the chair and began reassuring himself that the needle had Ulquiorra's name on it and not his.

The nurse continued to watch him. "Lots of people are squeamish around needles, sir. It's okay if you want to leave the room for a few minutes." When he gritted his teeth and remained seated, she shrugged. "You're sure?"

"He's sure," Ulquiorra rasped, eyeing the syringe and breathing more shallowly than usual.

"Well, then, sir, hold out your arm, please." When there was no movement, the nurse smiled. "Don't like needles much, either, I see. Think of it as a mosquito bite," she soothed, rubbing a cotton ball of antiseptic over Ulquiorra's skin, "only without the itchy bump later." She tied a little rubber strip around Ulquiorra's upper arm and tapped her fingers on the crook of his elbow. "Very nice veins," she complimented, patting his arm as though he was a skittish pet in need of comfort.

Ulquiorra shifted uncomfortably on the table, the paper cover crinkling as he moved. "What do you do with the blood when you're done? Do you store it somewhere to experiment on later?"

She looked up from where the needle hovered over Ulquiorra's arm, scandalized. "Experiment? Like in a horror movie?" The nurse paused, as though imagining what would prompt that line of inquiry. "Of course not! We have it incinerated. Now hold still, please, sir. If you keep shaking like this, I'll miss the vein and have to stick you again."

Grimmjow watched from his considerably safer seat while Ulquiorra clenched his teeth and eyed the ceiling. He tried not to be nauseous as one little plastic tube after another filled up with red. It wasn't that he was afraid of needles, really. Because he wasn't. Really. It was just that certain of the medicine's side effects were still in place. Grimmjow had badgered Stark into listing off the side effects once while Szayel was busy planning the next stage of his side project, and while it sucked that there was still some anxiety, it at least gave him a good reason to be less than comfortable around needles.

"You need to breathe, sir," the nurse was saying. "If you don't, you'll pass out."

He wasn't sure what Ulquiorra's excuse was. This little syringe wasn't nearly as monstrous as the one Szayel had threatened him with last night. And a little prick in the arm was nothing compared to the thought of being stabbed in the throat with one. Grimmjow rubbed his own arm nervously. He'd rather cut himself open and bleed into a bowl than sit on that table and have it sucked out of him, and he got the feeling Ulquiorra would agree.

"There we are," the nurse said, holding a new cotton ball to the inside of Ulquiorra's elbow and wrapping a strip of blue tape around his arm. "You did very well, sir," she praised, patting his shoulder. She got up and tossed the used needle and her discarded gloves into the biohazard box on the wall before opening the door. "Go ahead and rest here while we run the tests, okay? And remember to take nice, slow breaths. Shouldn't be long at all."

The door closed behind her and Grimmjow looked over at Ulquiorra, who had his head tilted back and his eyes unfocused as he swayed slightly. "I... don't... feel well," he murmured.

"'Course you don't. You just got your shoulder petted like you were some kind of kid." Grimmjow got up and cautiously examined the biohazard box where he knew at least one syringe was lying in wait. He'd almost had his _hands_ in there! "That, and you're here, remember? And for good reason if the doctor needed someone to jab a needle in your arm to find out what was wrong. Could you imagine if Szayel decided to do that?" There was no response, and he glanced over in time to see Ulquiorra slide sideways right off the table.

It took him a split second to process the situation, and by the time he had, he'd already grabbed Ulquiorra's shoulders to keep his head from hitting the floor. Grimmjow crouched there, weighing his options. His first instinct on seeing an enemy fall over for no reason was to finish that enemy off and then gloat. Clearly, that was not the thing to do in this situation. But he didn't have any idea what one did with a suddenly fallen _ally_, and if he was going to be honest with himself, Ulquiorra fit more readily into the second category.

After a moment, he set Ulquiorra down flat and thought about trying to find the doctor again. Or the scarily perky nurse. But no, Ulquiorra was breathing without a problem, and that meant he should be fine in a minute. Szayel was weird, and creepy, and just a little bit terrifying if he had the right equipment in hand, but he made good gigais. "Hey." Grimmjow slapped him across the face, trying to be gentle about it. "Wake up!" Nothing. So much for gentle. Grimmjow tried the other cheek, harder. "I mean it, you little shit! I don't care how sick you are, I'm not carrying you home!"

Ulquiorra's eyes fluttered open and slowly focused on Grimmjow's face before wandering to the surroundings. "Why... am I on the floor?" He put a hand to his cheek, confused.

"Hell if I know," Grimmjow muttered, stuffing his concern back where it couldn't be seen. He grabbed Ulquiorra by the collar and hauled him into a sitting position. "You didn't lose enough blood to pass out, that's for sure."

"You hit me."

"No I didn't." Grimmjow crossed his arms. "Well, only _after _you fell off the table. And you tried to break my arm, so I think we're even."

Rather than reply, Ulquiorra simply dug a cough drop out of his pocket and unwrapped it. A moment later, he shuddered. "That's impossible."

Grimmjow turned his head to the side, curiosity only barely overtaking a growing sense of apathy. "What is?"

"The strawberry cough drop tastes worse than the citrus splash." He ignored Grimmjow's laughter and spat the cough drop out into the wrapper with a gag. "I thought citrus splash was a horrible as they got." He didn't retrieve a replacement cough drop.

They sat there for a while, leaning against the side of the examination table, which was just as cold as the rest of the room, Grimmjow noted. In fact, about the only warm thing in the room was Ulquiorra, and he only knew that because the smaller Espada was falling asleep again with his head on his shoulder. At least in the gigai, there was no horned mask digging into his shoulder. Grimmjow shook Ulquiorra a little, and then stood up, dragging Ulquiorra up as well before settling him in one of the chairs in the room with his head leaning on the wall. Maybe on top of being sick, a little blood loss went a long way. Or maybe it was the mental image of Szayel holding a syringe. Maybe some combination.

Grimmjow looked around the room, and sighed. It wasn't white, but it wasn't where he wanted to be, either. At this point, he thought he'd done more than his fair share of real world chores and was almost--though he'd never admit it--looking forward to curling up on that blasted white couch in Ulquiorra's room so he could sleep again. There were only about ten more days of quarantine left, anyway, and then he could finally go back to his own room.

He had just about mustered up enough curiosity to go digging through the cabinets when the door opened again and the doctor entered with a smile. Szayel had smiled a lot, too, at first. And the nurse. _It must be a creepy medical thing,_ he mused. They probably thought it was good for their patients.

"Asleep, is he?" The doctor chuckled. "I expect he'll be doing a lot of that in the near future." He pulled up the rolling chair and adopted a more serious expression. "Your cousin does have strep throat, as I suspected. He'll take this medicine for that." Instead of handing him a piece of paper with scribbles on it, the doctor handed him a canister of pills. "It's best that he eat a little something with these, but not necessary. What _is_ necessary is that he drink a full glass of water with the medicine. Grimm-san, are you listening?"

"Huh? Yeah." Grimmjow nodded, picking out the important details to repeat to the doctor. "Drink lots of water. Give him the pills. What the fuck is 'strep throat,' anyway?"

The doctor handed him a pair of glossy sheets of paper folded into little booklets. "I'm assuming your brother with the pink hair takes care of the details around your household, yes?" At Grimmjow's nod, he continued. "These are pamphlets on strep throat and mononucleosis. Give them to him for me, okay? The instructions for the antibiotics are printed on the side of the canister. Follow them closely."

Grimmjow held up a hand. "Wait. I know that word. Antibiotics. That's that shit you gave me, isn't it? That was awful." He tossed the medicine at the doctor. "Take 'em back. He'd rather die, trust me."

"These are much milder, Grimm-san. You were the worst case of pneumonia I've seen in years. I debated with your brother over the possibility of having you hospitalized, but he took offense at the director's name. I can't imagine why. Ishida-san is quite capable, and runs a high quality hospital." He passed the pills back, returning to the subject at hand. "These will clear up the strep in about two days, but he needs to keep taking them for the full five, or he'll get sick again."

Grimmjow moved the canister from one hand to the other and back. "Right," he said. "Five days. Milder." He wasn't sure he believed the man. If it took two full weeks of pills to clear up the pneumonia, how could weaker pills do the trick in five days? Didn't it stand to reason that these would be that much _stronger?_ And that he'd have to put up with all kinds of crap while Ulquiorra was drugged out of his mind? Grimmjow shrugged. Let Szayel figure it out later. He just wanted to be done with this whole trip. "Whatever. So he's got this strep throat stuff. And that other?" He glanced at the second booklet. "Mondo something or other."

"Mononucleosis. Or mono for short."

"Right." Grimmjow tried to pretend he cared, but it had been a long day, and after two overt displays of sympathy in row, his reserves of giving a shit were more or less depleted. "Mono. Where's the medicine for that?"

The doctor smiled. "There isn't any, Grimm-san."

Grimmjow sat straight up in the chair. This was suddenly worth caring about. "You mean he'll be a fucking slug for the rest of his life? Stop _smiling_, damn it! This is serious."

"Mono is viral. It will pass on its own with time, fluids, and rest. All he needs is sleep and patience." He chuckled. "Calm down, Grimm-san, please. Think of it as a forced vacation. He should stay in bed for at least a week, and he'll probably be too tired to do much of anything for a month or more."

"But it _will_ go away?" Grimmjow had to be absolutely sure on this aspect of things. If Ulquiorra's usefulness had come to an end, there was no telling who Aizen would blame for it. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of that punishment--it would definitely be painful and probably permanent.

"Oh, indeed. He'll be his right regular self in no time. Just remember, he needs rest. If he overdoes it--and even a single flight of stairs would be overdoing it, for either of you--he'll have a relapse and be right back to sleeping all day."

Grimmjow nodded. "Great. So in the meantime, he's a useless, cupcake-obsessed slug. Any more good news?"

The doctor chuckled again. "Remember, Grimm-san. Plenty of fluids and lots of rest. That goes for both of you, but especially for your cousin."

"Question." Grimmjow paused for a moment to be sure he properly phrased the issue that had been dancing around in the back of his mind since Szayel had first given Ulquiorra the cough drops and the instruction to drink water. "Lots of fluids," he started. "How's he supposed to drink a lot of water if he can't fucking swallow? He nearly choked to death on a cough drop earlier, and he wasn't exactly all that willing to down much water in the cab."

The doctor smiled. "Ice cream will help."

"Ice cream," Grimmjow repeated. Only the fact that the man sitting in front of him was a doctor and therefore firmly off limits kept him from acting on the violent impulse that shot through him at the mention of yet another baffling human term. Both parts of the phrase made sense on their own. Together... they were a mystery. But if a doctor was recommending it... "I suppose there's a prescription thing for that?"

The man's mouth opened and closed a few times before anything came out. "Your family has the most interesting ideas about life, Grimm-san." He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. "A doctor friend was telling me about his son's classmate. She had to be taught how to open a juice box. A relative, perhaps?"

Grimmjow looked over at the package he'd picked up, sitting beside Ulquiorra. It was indisputably a box. And a cardboard one at that, since it was made out of cardboard. But a juice box... how the hell would that work? He shook his head, saving the logical dilemma for another time. "I don't have any female relatives." Except Halibel. But he wasn't sure what stupid name Szayel would want her to use, so she was best not mentioned.

"Oh well," the doctor said. "Just thought I'd ask. But to answer your question, ice cream is not a prescription drug, or even a drug at all. So no. You could find it anywhere. In fact, about half a block north of here there's a nice little ice cream shop that specializes in--"

"Great," Grimmjow interrupted. "Anything else I need to know, or can we leave?"

..........

Grimmjow slung Ulquiorra's arm from around his shoulders, letting the shorter Espada slide out of his grip and into a slump at one of the itty-bitty round tables at the window of "Hojo's Novelty Ice Creams," and then let the bags with the bread, bean paste, package, pamphlets, and medicine slide off his arm. Once everything was settled, he looked around. It was brightly lit and cold, also largely empty. He was beginning to think that humans had a thing for cold building interiors, and that maybe Aizen should think about getting some of this in Las Noches before he melted the town into a key. Or whatever his big plan was.

He cast one last glare at Ulquiorra, who'd hardly noticed the difference between being half-dragged down the street and being folded over a glass table, his cheek flush against the tabletop. At this rate, he *would* end up carrying the little bastard, regardless of the threats he made to the contrary. At least the cold air would help combat the fever he'd been working up. And if this "ice cream" had any relationship at all to its name, it would be cold, also. And the doctor said it would help.

Grimmjow turned around and wandered up to a long, glassed-in display. Seemingly countless tubs of colorful paste were lined up in metal buckets. On top of a taller counter, there were little cups in a progression of sizes. He scanned the colors of the paste and bit back a groan. It just figured this would end up like the bean paste.

"How can I help you, sir?"

Grimmjow looked up at an eager youth in the most ridiculous outfit he'd seen since the woman had been given a proper uniform. The stripes down the front even beat out Aaroniero's ruffled collar. He tried not to look at the hat. "I'm here for ice cream," he said, turning his eyes back to the buckets of paste.

The kid blinked. "Did... you have a particular flavor in mind?"

Grimmjow looked over his shoulder at Ulquiorra and engaged in a brief mental debate over whether he should get a little of each color. Maybe with some green sprinkles, since that might perk the Cuarta up a bit. Ulquiorra shifted slightly and groaned, mostly asleep again. _What the hell_, he thought. _Might as well indulge the guy._ Grimmjow turned back to the clerk, who had a strangely nervous look in his eyes. "White."

"White what, sir?"

"What?"

"What kind of white do you want?" the clerk clarified.

Grimmjow scowled. "The kind that is actually white-colored, kid. If it looks white, I want it."

The clerk took a deep breath and bit his lip. "Well, we have several flavors that are white, sir. And many more that are..." he looked around the room as though searching for a hidden observer, "...mostly... white. In the, er, all-white category, we've got Almond Ripple, Butter Pecan, Coconut, French Vanilla," the nervousness faded as he got into the routine of flavor-listing, "Parmesan Popcorn Crunch, Pineapple Banana Swirl, Potato Liqueur, Roasted Marshmallow, Saltwater Fish Paste, Sesame Garlic with Butter, Shrimp, Vanilla Bean, White Cheddar, White Chocolate Macadamia Nut, White Pepper Horseradish, and the special of the day, Piña Colada with Jamaican Rum." The clerk sucked in a deep breath. "Our mostly-white flavors include hand-churned--"

"Fine, fine!" Grimmjow waved his hands to cut the kid off, his mind already swimming with all the options in the so-called "all-white" category. He didn't want to add a second category on top of that. After digging around in his pocket, Grimmjow plunked down all of the money that remained after paying the doctor for the appointment and medicine. "How much will this buy?"

The question seemed to throw the clerk off balance again, and he counted it with shaky fingers. "J-just over a gallon, sir."

"Okay." Grimmjow made no moved to accept the money as the clerk tried to hand it back over the counter. "I'll take a little of everything white. More of that last one. The rum sounds fun." He paused and gave the clerk one of his milder glares. "And _no_ French Vanilla. I do _not_ speak French."

The clerk fidgeted. "I'm sure you don't, sir."

Grimmjow looked back over his shoulder to check on Ulquiorra, who it turned out was still fast asleep, and only remained in the seat because his slide to the floor was prevented by the window at his side. He really hoped he hadn't been like that. Shaking his head and wishing for a moment he could record pictures with his eyes to be crushed and viewed later, Grimmjow returned his attention to the clerk, who had over a dozen little cups laid out on the counter and was filling them with scoops of white paste.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Grimmjow yelled, waving his hands again since that had stopped the clerk in his tracks the last time. "What are you _doing?!_ I can't carry all those!"

The clerk froze, a ball of off-white paste slowly inching out of the scoop. "Huh?"

Grimmjow pointed at the largest of the containers on the countertop. "Just dump it all in the big tub or something."

There was a great deal of hesitation before the clerk responded with anything other than mute gaping. "...You mean mix it all together? All the flavors?" He sounded as though no one had ever made such a request before.

"They're all white, aren't they?" Grimmjow shrugged. "What does it matter?"

This time, instead of a nervous reaction, the clerk bit back a gag and swallowed hard. "Yes, sir" he muttered mechanically. "Of course, sir."

Grimmjow watched him mash ice cream into the much larger tub, carefully making sure that there were no patches where any one flavor was over-represented. After a minute, the repetitive scooping and cautious layering got boring to watch, and Grimmjow began an investigation of the other canisters on top of the counter. There were lots of chopped nuts, it seemed, but also some of those colorful sprinkles like he'd seen earlier at the grocery store and something that looked like long, dusty flakes of dandruff.

"Hey, kid," he started, "how much do I have left over after a gallon of that?"

"Excuse me?"

Grimmjow pointed at the jars on the counter. "Can I buy this shit, too?"

The clerk followed his finger to the toppings and closed his eyes for a moment. "Sure."

"Cool. Toss some of the white stuff on top. However much will get rid of the change so I've got even less to carry home."

After a few more minutes of pressing the ice cream down into the bucket, the clerk dumped on a half cup each of white sprinkles and shaved coconut. He stuck two long, red spoons into the tub and passed the bucket over the counter along with a wad of brown paper napkins. "Here you are, sir."

Grimmjow looked down at the ice cream. "Do you have any white spoons?"

Biting his lip again, the clerk glanced around the room. He cast wide eyes at Grimmjow for a moment before swallowing again. "Am... Am I on t.v.?"

"What's tee vee" Grimmjow asked flatly, "and what does that have to do with spoons?"

The clerk flinched, and then spun on his heel and walked into the back room, muttering something about customers being right all the time. He returned half a minute later with a single, white spoon and a wad of white napkins. "This is all we have left in white."

Grimmjow accepted both, and set the red spoons on the counter for the clerk to do something with. "Thanks. I think that's what I'm supposed to say to you, anyway." He plunked the bucket on the table and prodded Ulquiorra. "Come on," he said. "I've got this ice cream shit that's supposed to help. Let's go."

"Go'way," Ulquiorra moaned, his voice wavering between a hoarse rasp and a feeble whisper. He didn't lift his head from the table. "M'hot. Tired." All hints of a rasp vanished and were replaced by a breathy squeak. "Throat hurts."

"Screw hoping," Grimmjow muttered. "I _know_ I wasn't this pathetic." He grabbed Ulquiorra's arm and dragged the unwilling Cuarta to his feet. "Come on. The doctor says ice cream will make you feel better, but we can't eat it here." Especially not when the nerve-wracked clerk had started telling the thin air that he'd passed the test and would his boss please come out of hiding, it wasn't funny any more.

It was a struggle, but he finally managed to drag Ulquiorra, the package, the medicine, the pamphlets, the prisoner's food, and the ice cream to a bench just across the street. Once all the stupid things he'd been burdened with on this trip were settled, Grimmjow flopped down on the bench to join them. He handed Ulquiorra the spoon. "Start eating."

"It's white," he whispered.

Grimmjow felt his eye twitch. "If that's suddenly a _problem_, Ulquiorra, I'm going to hold your face down in this bucket of ice cream until it melts enough to drown you."

"Why white?"

And how the hell was he supposed to answer that? 'Because I thought you'd like it?' No way in hell. 'Because you looked miserable and I...' Nope. 'Because I felt bad about the blood work?' Too close to an apology. 'Because...' Not a chance. He shrugged, and motioned for Ulquiorra to put the spoon to good use. "Because that's all they had, moron," he lied. "I wanted to get all kinds of colors, but it would figure this is the one place where there isn't any variety."

He watched Ulquiorra scrape off a spoonful of ice cream that was mostly sprinkles and put it in his mouth. Satisfied that he was going to eat it, Grimmjow leaned his head back on the bench. Now they just had to get back to the park. They couldn't take a cab, and there was no way he was carrying Ulquiorra. Hell, his own reserves were giving out, and he wasn't sure he could walk all the way to the park even without Ulquiorra weighing him down.

There was a hand on his sleeve. "You should eat."

Grimmjow looked at the proffered spoon, and then at Ulquiorra. Szayel _had_ set aside money specifically for them to eat a meal. Something about retaining strength. And he _was_ hungry. He shrugged and accepted the spoon, digging out a glob of ice cream for himself. He couldn't say much about whether it counted as good or not, but it was cold. Kind of like cheesy garlic mixed with milk. The next bite was more like a banana. The two together were... interesting. He handed the spoon back.

So. Getting them to the park. Grimmjow dug out the map Szayel had handed him. He wasn't even sure where the park was with all the twists and turns the cab had made. It could be a block away or clear across town. Any sense of direction he had was shot by now. He found a word on the map that matched the little sign on the post overhead, and followed it. The line cut all the way across the map, from top to bottom. That really didn't tell him anything. Grimmjow shrugged, crumbled the map into a ball, and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

Even if he could find the park from here, he got the feeling they'd never make it. If, as the doctor said, one flight of stairs was overdoing it, he was pretty sure a walk across town would be way too much. He'd rather not get pneumonia again. If they weren't at the park by the appointed time, Szayel would just have to go looking for them. And it would serve him right.

They'd just sit here and eat the ice cream. Besides, after passing the spoon back and forth a few times, he'd come to the conclusion that ice cream was actually pretty good, and tingly from the rum. Or most of it was, anyway. There were patches of pure horror in that bucket, and since it was all one color, he could never be sure what he'd pulled up on the spoon at any given bite. But regardless of the bad sections, this beat walking to the park. And while it didn't make up for the rest of the day, at least it didn't make things worse. At this point, he'd take what he could get.

* * *

OMAKE: Quincy Archer... Is Really Confused

Ishida Uryu gripped his "Sunflower Tailor" bag more tightly and increased his pace just enough to arrive quickly without looking out of place to the regular folks. If he noticed an arrancar imprint but no shinigami had clustered on the scene, that meant it was another of those oddly undetectable, untraceable gigais. He wasn't sure what Aizen was planning, but some of the arrancar sightings in the last few months were just bizarre. An arrancar asleep on a park bench in the rain. An arrancar drifting through the park drinking cans of abandoned soda. An arrancar standing outside a pharmacy holding bags of cough syrup. An arrancar loitering on the rooftop near a Laundromat. And those were the tame sightings. Never mind the pair of arrancar riding the train system back and forth across town for days on end.

Perhaps the weirdest sighting, though not the most awkward one by far, was the pair that purchased a cart full of cosmetics and then tried to steal the shopping cart itself. He hadn't gotten near enough to actually see that one, and had settled for asking the humans in the store what had happened. So far, none of these incidents broke the truce, but he'd spent the last few months scurrying around town whenever he felt an arrancar. The gigais seemed to flicker in and out, disappearing for hours and then showing up again for a few minutes clear on the other side of town. He'd been _watching _the pair on the bus, and they'd vanished from his senses no fewer than ten times on a single bus route.

He rounded the corner behind Hojo's, Inoue's favorite ice cream shop, and came to a sudden halt. Yes, this would be another of the odder encounters, he was sure. There were two of them, sitting--or slumping, more like--on a bench eating what looked like vanilla ice cream but which probably wasn't, given that it was Hojo's. A crumpled map of Karakura was poking out of a nearby trash can. Neither one reacted to his sudden presence, all of five feet away. He couldn't detect any shinigami in the area, which made a certain amount of sense, since they were in the untraceable gigais. As loathe as he was to help the shinigami, he wondered how he could get a sample of some sort so Urahara-san could get to work on correcting shinigami locators to pick these gigais.

"What are you doing here, arrancar?" he asked, dropping his bag to the curb and readying his bow. He hadn't confronted the others, but the others had all been in close quarters with humans. These two, despite sitting near a busy street, weren't in earshot of anyone who could get confused by the exchange. And as long as he kept his bow down at his side, he wouldn't attract any attention, or break the truce.

The blue-haired one--Grimmjow, from Kurosaki's description--looked up and scowled at him. "We're sitting." He pointed to a pile of plastic bags from one of the larger grocery stores in town, which contained rolls and something in tins. "Got to keep little miss red bean paste happy, don't we?"

Ishida felt his resolve waver slightly. There was only one person he could be referring to, and if they really wanted Inoue to be happy, they'd release her, despite the terms of the truce indicating that she stay in Hueco Mundo. This had to be a trap of some sort. "There have been a lot of arrancar sightings in recent months, despite the truce." He felt heat bloom across his cheeks as he recalled that one sighting in particular. That arrancar had also had blue hair, according to Yoruichi. "One of them highly inappropriate."

The arrancar shrugged. "Inappropriate maybe, but lots of fun." He wiggled blue eyebrows in his direction and Ishida noted with disapproval that the arrancar didn't have the decency to look ashamed. "So what's your point, Quincy? There's been no real fighting, and we haven't gotten in anyone's way."

That was true. The truce forbade three things for the next year and a half: fighting and interference on either side, rescue attempts on their part, and attempts at making the King's Key on Aizen's part. These two weren't interfering or fighting. Not at all. They were sitting. In public. Eating ice cream. Ishida's bow faltered slightly. What could any of this possibly gain for Aizen? This was all getting very confusing, particularly as the shorter arrancar was concentrating entirely on the ice cream and ignoring the conversation. He hadn't even looked up once, and Ishida had a weapon charged. "Are you really here to buy food for Inoue-san?"

"Sure." He snagged the spoon from his companion, scraped the bottom of the bucket, ate a bite, and handed the spoon back. "And Aizen just had to have some stupid cardboard box," he said around the ice cream before swallowing it. "Look, we aren't bothering anyone, so just piss off, all right? It's been a long day."

Before Ishida could respond, a garganta unzipped to the right, just missing a nearby storefront. Ishida found himself locking eyes with none other than Szayel Aporro Granz. The Espada had been seething when he first stepped out of the garganta, and his mood didn't seem to improve when he saw Ishida. As they stared at each other, the air seemed to grow thick.

"Oh, get over yourselves." The blue-haired one got to his feet and picked up the bags from the bench, holding them out toward the garganta. "Hey, Pink, come grab this shit. I've been carting it around all day and I'm sick of it. Ulquiorra, get your ass up. I'm done carting you around, too." He dragged the shorter arrancar--Ulquiorra, it seemed--up by the front of his collar and shoved him toward the garganta. Then he turned to level an exhausted glare in Ishida's direction. "And you, Quincy? Go home and change. Only we arrancar have orders to wear so much fucking white."

"There's nothing wrong with white," Ishida and Ulquiorra said in unison, a second before the garganta slammed shut.

Ishida adjusted his glasses, and then stooped to retrieve his sewing bag. While the encounter hadn't provided any of the clues he'd been looking for, he was thankful the bag remained intact for use in the future. And what an odd encounter. From Kurosaki's descriptions, Ulquiorra was supposed to outrank Grimmjow. He wondered why the higher-ranking Espada let himself be pushed around like that.

A blotch of white caught his eye as he turned to go home, and Ishida stopped. They'd left the ice cream tub. It wasn't much, but he was sure Urahara was crafty enough to get a sample from it. Perhaps the encounter hadn't been a total loss.

* * *

Notes: I figure there's a need to clarify a wee bit about time lines. The truce was drawn up shortly after the four captains showed up to save the day, and terms were designed to a) maintain the status quo and b) to forestall Aizen's plan to destroy Karakura. No one's thrilled, but the compromise was supposed to give the soul society faction a chance to regroup. So this departs from the manga just before the Pendulum arc. Roughly. Nnoitra and Kenpachi never got to figure out who was strongest, but Zommari and Szayel bit the dust.


	15. Confessions of a Box Kicker

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or places, etc. You're reading this on a site devoted to fanfiction. This should be a clear indication that I'm not pretending ownership and therefore should really, really not be sued. Many thanks.

Mini-Summary: Why is Szayel so upset? Will Ulquiorra take his medicine? Will Grimmjow learn about the cupcake? What's this about an apology? And... what is Nnoitra hiding? All these answers and more inside.

* * *

Chapter 15: Confessions of a Box-Kicker

Grimmjow shifted the bags from one arm to the other for probably the third time so far on this trip through the garganta, and stared at the package Szayel was holding. He'd almost forgotten to wonder about the contents, but seeing it in someone else's grasp had renewed that curiosity. He glanced to his right to make sure Ulquiorra was still keeping up, and reached out to drag him forward several steps.

"It isn't as though I'm not busy, Grimmjow," Szayel was complaining. "I would have thought that Ulquiorra could keep your inconsiderate nature in check, but apparently I was wrong." He moved the package to the other arm and shot a glare over his shoulder.

Grimmjow rolled his eyes as Szayel started up again. He'd failed to get a word in four times already, and was about to tune out the other Espada's whining about having to wander all over town to find them when there was a break in the wall of speech.

"Well?" Szayel was looking at him expectantly.

"Tch. I don't know why _you're_ in such a pissy mood," Grimmjow muttered. "You got to stay home and avoid cabs and neurotic plusses and ten fucking flights of stairs. You had it easy."

Szayel stopped walking. "Don't go there, Grimmjow. Until you've held Cuuhlhourne's hair while he vomits up the entirety of a blueberry pie, taking breaks to rave to you about the positive impact this stomach illness will have on his girlish figure, you have no room to talk. Absolutely no room. And let's not even mention Ggio. He was--"

"Okay, okay," he interrupted. "I get it. We both have reasons to be mad." Anything, even a concession, was better than hearing about damn Ggio and whatever it was that was worse than replayed blueberry pie.

The Octava sighed and started walking again, oblivious to Ulquiorra's groan as the trio resumed the journey. "So how much money do you have left over? There should be quite a lot."

Grimmjow sucked in a breath. "None."

"What?"

He shrugged, figuring it served Szayel right to have no leftovers for Aizen. "We spent it all. The cab was pricey, and the ice cream. Doctor, all that." No need to mention the bean paste and sweet bread. No need at all.

"Ice cream," Szayel repeated with a frown. "That was not on your list for today."

"Doctor said it would be good for Ulquiorra's throat. Anyway, you said to eat lunch, and we did."

Szayel leveled a blank look at him. "You ate ice cream. For lunch."

"And we drank water." Grimmjow wished he'd kept the bottle for proof. Empty, it wasn't heavy at all. "Thought you'd be proud."

"I don't know about proud," Szayel murmured, studying each of them in turn over his shoulder, "but I'm surprised. Which of you forced the other to drink?"

"Both of us," Ulquiorra rasped, having mustered the energy to rejoin the conversation briefly.

Grimmjow nodded. "And it was a big-ass bottle, too."

"Ah." Szayel sounded pleased, if disbelieving. "Lots of water, and a dubious meal. Two things I hadn't expected you to..." His step faltered slightly and he slowed down until he was even with the other two, and then looped his free arm around Grimmjow's shoulders. "Wait one moment, Grimmjow. When you say that you and Ulquiorra drank a large bottle of water, how exactly do you mean?"

"We swallowed it," Grimmjow said, shrugging out of the contact. "Are you stupid? How the fuck else would you drink water?"

A peculiar grin crept over Szayel's face, and his voice took on a light and airy quality that was three shades of unnatural. "You mean, I'm sure," he said, "that you poured water from the bottle into two glasses, and then--"

Ulquiorra cleared his throat. "Where would we have found glasses?"

Szayel stopped walking entirely, and looked back and forth between them with an expression remarkably similar to the one Ulquiorra had worn just before falling off the doctor's table. "Are you telling me that you both drank straight from the same bottle?"

Grimmjow bit his lip and tried to squash the little voice in his mind that said something was horribly wrong. "Um, yes?"

"I see." Szayel clenched his fist and started walking again, his gait off by just a bit. They walked in uneasy silence for a very long moment before he spoke up again in a voice that seemed both calm and strangely forced. "And so you drank half of the water, Grimmjow, and then Ulquiorra drank the remainder."

"We alternated," Ulquiorra said.

"Yeah," Grimmjow added, his eyes on the Octava's fist. "He drank a third, I drank a third, and we kind of split the rest."

Szayel was silent for over a minute, walking with his back to them. "You drank after Ulquiorra did."

Ulquiorra frowned. "That wasn't okay?"

The Octava spun to face them, throwing the package to the ground and waving his hands in the air. "_How could you _possibly_ think that was okay!?_" he bellowed.

"Shit, why wouldn't I?" Grimmjow yelled back. He was getting tired of people lording special knowledge over him, smiling and tossing out concepts like elevators and fucking bean paste. And this? No. Szayel was two whole ranks below him, and he'd had it. He'd finally fucking had it. "You never said a _damn_ thing about it," he growled, slicing a hand out in front of him. "Not one way or the other."

Szayel scowled. "I didn't mention it because I never thought you two liked each other enough to _share _anything!" He punctuated his statement with a vicious kick to the box.

"We don't," Ulquiorra muttered, glancing at the package before shooting Szayel a warning look. "Things were expensive. We could only get one."

"And anyway," Grimmjow fumed, "you said this gigai would repel anything. Now you're saying you lied to me?"

"Anything _human-borne_, yes," Szayel clarified. He thrust a finger into Ulquiorra's face. "Does _this _look human to you?"

"Well, no." In fact Ulquiorra was looking particularly murderous at the moment, and not at all like a human, despite the gigai. Grimmjow decided that wasn't the point. "But that's not what you said!" he insisted. "You said 'indestructible' back there!"

Szayel's scowl deepened. "Yes," he spat. "'Immunologically indestructible,'" he quoted, putting a new boot-shaped dent in the package with each word. "That's exactly what I said. In respect to _human_," kick, "_borne_," kick, "illnesses!"

Grimmjow intercepted the last kick with one of his own and was pleased to see Szayel flinch back from it. "I ain't taking the fall if you break that shit," he growled. "The things I went through to even _get _that fucking package, and if you keep kicking it like that--"

"It's just books, you moron," Szayel snapped. "They wouldn't break if I dumped the box off the top of the fifth tower."

"How do you know that?" Completely defused by the comment, Grimmjow glanced at the dented package and tried to see whatever Szayel had seen. "You didn't even open it."

"Are you really that distractible, Grimmjow?" Ulquiorra stepped over the box and stood in place protecting it. He glared at Szayel. "Regardless of the contents, you will handle Aizen-sama's property with more care, Szayel."

Szayel scoffed. "You're both his property. We all are. Why don't you handle _yourselves_ with a little care and stop spreading your damn germs to each other?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Shit, the second I fix one of you the other comes down sick. This has got to stop."

Grimmjow glanced up from the box, having missed the previous exchange. "Wait, how do you know it's books?"

"Oh, will you drop it about the books, already?" Szayel ran a hand through his hair irritably. "We've moved on. The point is that you're both idiots. The new gigai is fine against human-borne illness, but gigai to gigai is completely..." He trailed off, looking back and forth between Grimmjow and Ulquiorra with his eyes slowly focusing elsewhere. "Gigai to gigai," he muttered. "Gigai to--"

Suddenly, Szayel slammed his fist into his open palm, his distraction turning to excitement. "That's _it!_" He turned around and began walking briskly toward Las Noches.

Grimmjow stood there frowning for a moment, and then took off after him, shaking thoughts of books in boxes out of his mind. "Oi! Do I want to know what you're thinking?"

"Hm?" Szayel looked back, but was apparently too focused on this new train of thought to let him catch up.

Throwing a good deal of his remaining energy into closing the distance between them, Grimmjow clenched a fist in the fabric of Szayel's uniform and held on. "I asked what you were thinking," he repeated, keeping his feet moving as Szayel pulled him along.

"You couldn't possibly grasp it, Grimmjow, so don't bother." Szayel slowed down slightly, allowing him to keep up more easily. "After all, I lost you on a concept as simple as bacteria, remember?"

Grimmjow fought back the urge to punch Szayel's kidney out of his torso, and distilled his various questions into the one that mattered most at the moment. "Am I going to get sick again?"

Szayel finally stopped walking and turned around to face him. "Yes, you moron. At least have the decency to look ashamed at your stupidity."

"Hey!" Grimmjow grabbed one of Szayel's fingers and twisted it until the scientist's smug look was replaced with a pained one. "How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"How did you _think_ people got sick?" Szayel asked, trying to free his finger without breaking it. All he succeeded in doing was tearing the fabric of his glove. "Let go, already!"

Grimmjow did so, having gotten what he wanted from the move. "I have no fucking idea how, Pink. It's not like we ever got sick before." And they hadn't. Not in Las Noches or out in the wilds. It was some human thing, and hell if he knew how people caught it. It could have been the bitch's coughing. Or their fighting. Or the grope fest that followed. Or even the--

"That's it," Szayel muttered, interrupting his thoughts. "Once the quarantine is lifted, I'm hosting a tutorial on illness. 'Germs,' I'll call it. Or 'Germs: How Not to Catch Them.'" He sighed. "I'll beg Aizen to make attendance mandatory for all arrancar."

"Yeah, have fun with that." Grimmjow tossed the scrap of glove to the ground behind him. "Half of them won't understand anything past 'really small bad stuff,' and the other half won't care."

Szayel snapped open the garganta and raised an eyebrow at him. "And which half are you, Grimmjow?"

"I'm the irritated, going to kill someone if I get sick again half." He walked through the garganta and glowered back at Szayel. "'Specially since you promised me I wouldn't."

"Well, you might not." Szayel ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck before joining Grimmjow in the well-lit hallway. "You still have just enough antibiotics in your system that you might be safe. And there's a chance that the germs didn't transfer between gigais due to some structural differences between his old model and your new one." He let the garganta close. "I'll have to take some samples and run some tests to be sure."

"What kind of samples?" Grimmjow felt his arm twitch at the thought of Szayel wielding a syringe. "And what kind of tests?"

Szayel waved his arms in the air. "Oh, you know. Samples. Tests." He turned and headed toward the East wing. "Come on you, two. You need to rest while you can."

Grimmjow blinked and glanced around himself before smiling. "Heh. You left Ulquiorra in there," he called.

"What?" Szayel glanced back. "Shit!" He snapped open a garganta and took a few hurried steps toward it.

It wasn't really a laughing matter, given how little energy Ulquiorra had at the moment and how very big a garganta was, but Grimmjow found it difficult not to cackle, and impossible not to grin. It served the little bastard right. Both of them. Ulquiorra could end up trapped in the garganta unless someone with more reiatsu went in, found him in all that space, and dragged him out. And Szayel couldn't do much worse than dump Aizen's favorite in a black hole while he ran off to run tests.

They both peered in through the opening. At first, there was nothing to be seen, but then Ulquiorra appeared, trudging along toward them, his head down but radiating exhaustion and venomous fury. He clutched the battered package to his chest as he took careful steps along the tendril of white he was managing to maintain.

Szayel reached in and expanded the path, looking sheepish as he helped Ulquiorra out into the hallway. "I'm so--"

"You left me," Ulquiorra interrupted in the clipped tones of someone who was trying not to be violent.

Szayel tried again. "I am so, so sorry. We--"

"Save it." Ulquiorra shoved the box at him. "And take this."

"Right." Szayel nodded, running his gloveless finger along the frayed cardboard. He could almost make out one of the titles. Something about defiant children. He was afraid the box would fall apart if he gripped it too hard. "Well, while I gather equipment for samples and such, why don't you two settle down on the couch in the front room." He looked at each of them in turn to be sure they were listening.

Grimmjow grabbed Ulquiorra's arm and pointed him in the right direction. "Yeah. Whatever." He waited until he couldn't hear the click-clack of Szayel's regulation boots in the hallway, and then marched purposefully toward the woman's room.

"You have no right to be in there," Ulquiorra reminded him with what remained of his voice.

Grimmjow paused, one hand up against the door. He looked back at Ulquiorra's figure, slumped against the opposite wall. "That's right. You want to go instead? I'm sure she'd love to see you like this. Maybe you could even stand up straight for the occasion."

When Ulquiorra tried, and failed, to push himself fully upright in indignation, Grimmjow grinned at him. "I ain't going in, don't get your panties in a bunch." As tired as he was now, if he went in, sat down, let her get started... he'd never get out again.

He separated out the bag with the medicine and pamphlets, and set it on the ground. Once he was sure he wouldn't end up handing over the wrong stuff, he opened the door a crack and poked his head in. The view was a nice one. The woman was bent over on her hands and knees, her ass up in the air as she tried to reach under the couch for something. "Hey, woman! Got your shit."

"Ouch!" she yelped as she banged her head on a nearby chair trying to get up. "Oh," she said with a smile, rubbing her head. "That was a long trip! I thought you'd forgotten about it."

The woman tried to look around him as she approached the door, and Grimmjow shifted his weight to block her view. He dangled the grocery bags out and waited while she took them. "Can't stay," he muttered, trying to look even a little upset about that.

"Oh," she said, her smile fading. "Well, maybe later?"

Grimmjow fidgeted a little, feeling Ulquiorra's reiatsu stir in irritation behind him. "Sure thing," he lied. "Can't wait." He shut the door in her face and shook his head before picking up the bag with the medicine. He had always supposed that, as a hollow, he knew what loneliness was. But whatever loneliness he was familiar with had nothing on hers. The woman was crazy if she thought he was decent company.

"You should not lie to her, Grimmjow."

"What do you care?" Grimmjow shoved open the door to Ulquiorra's room and held it open for his reluctant host. "She thinks your mask is frilly, remember? And I heard she slapped you once."

Ulquiorra sank onto the couch and leaned his head back with a small sigh. "She is already ours, already broken. There is no need for it. That's all."

Grimmjow stared at him for a moment, and then decided it wasn't worth the time to pry. He filled the glass on the table nearest Ulquiorra and shook out one of the pills. It was smaller than the ones he'd been tortured with, so maybe the doctor was right about them being weaker. He held it out between two fingers. "Here's your medicine. Take it with a full glass of water."

Ulquiorra didn't even look up. "I don't want any," he rasped.

"Yeah, can't say I blame you," Grimmjow muttered, letting the pill tumble back into its bottle. So Ulquiorra was going to play that game, was he? Well Grimmjow was an expert at it, and he'd be damned if he didn't win this round. "Medicine is awful stuff, and it's probably a waste of time, too."

He settled onto the opposite end of the couch, pill canister grasped firmly in the hand farthest from Ulquiorra. "You were asleep when the doctor was talking," he continued. "Blood work got you down." He glanced over at Ulquiorra, whose eyes were closed. He'd lose the game if Ulquiorra fell asleep, so he tossed the pills up and caught them with a clatter. Ulquiorra stirred, but continued to ignore him.

"Doctor said something about a full-body rash and being rendered speechless for life," Grimmjow said under his breath. "Not a problem, really," he continued with a shrug.

Ulquiorra slowly turned to face him, visibly disturbed. "What?"

Grimmjow waved a hand in his direction. "I mean, your uniform's got you covered head to toe, and it's not like you ever have anything important to say. So what's the harm?"

"Give me the pill," Ulquiorra said, a hand out and waiting.

Grimmjow scoffed. "No. You said you didn't want the medicine."

"I've changed my mind." Ulquiorra made a swipe for the bottle, but was too slow.

"Tough shit," Grimmjow said, lifting the bottle up over his head and out of the shorter Espada's reach. "No take backs. I'm going to throw them out the window."

Ulquiorra struggled to his feet to get more height on his side, but Grimmjow was also standing by the time he got to his feet, and had started backing slowly towards the window in a low-speed game of keep-away. "Grimmjow..." he threatened, before breaking off into a coughing fit and clutching at his throat. "Don't you dare..."

Grimmjow stopped under the window and held the medicine as close to the bars as he could without getting on his toes. His aim would see it sailing through the bars if he tried, and he could see as he glared down at his adversary that Ulquiorra was aware of this. There was something he'd been wanting from the Cuarta for a long time now, and this seemed like an excellent chance to get it. "I want a fucking apology," he hissed.

Ulquiorra backed up a step, confusion flitting across his face. "For what?" he asked.

"You want this medicine, you'll apologize for all the 'meals' you made me eat," he shuddered at the memory, "and then you'll swear to never cook for me again."

"I spent twice as long in the kitchen once you got sick," Ulquiorra replied haughtily, his tone ruined by the hoarseness of his voice. "Selecting just the right ingredients, in exactly the right quantities, being sure everything was perfectly prepared," he stopped to clear his throat with a grimace. "And you want an apology?" He shook his head. "I took excellent care of you when you were ill, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra insisted.

Grimmjow sneered at him. "Bullshit. The day I finally managed to eat Szayel's 'rice' and keep it down, you made me a plate of onion casserole." He bit back a gag. "It was nothing but onions," he ground out.

Ulquiorra somehow managed to simultaneously glare up at him and look down his nose at him. "There were leeks."

"Leeks are onions!" Grimmjow yelled.

"And scallions--"

Grimmjow cut him off with a warning shake of the pill bottle. "Also onions," he snarled. "And before you defend your culinary abomination by mentioning the chives or the shallots, let me tell you what _those_ are, genius! _Fucking onions!_" he screamed down at Ulquiorra. "I've never smelled so many onions in one place. I wanted to claw my own nose off."

Ulquiorra was silent for a moment, his expression betraying a hint of hurt feelings. "Stark said you liked onions," he murmured softly.

"Not anymore," Grimmjow growled. "You turned me off of onions for life."

Ulquiorra shifted his eyes from Grimmjow to the medicine that was still too close to the window for his comfort. "Fine," he rasped tersely. "I apologize. And I will not cook for you again unless ordered to do so by Aizen-sama. Now _give me that medicine_."

Grimmjow paused, racking his brain for anything else he might use this moment to get. "_And _I want to know about the cupcake."

Ulquiorra bristled at the reminder. "Well, I want to know why you gave the woman a pet."

There was a long silence as both parties insisted on being contrary.

"You first," Grimmjow said, finally getting tired of standing with his arms over his head.

Ulquiorra shook his head. "The medicine first, then the pet, then the baked goods."

"You're just going to find a reason not to tell me."

"Between the two of us, Grimmjow, whose word is worth more?"

He had to concede that particular point. It wasn't all bad, though, since he'd won the game of 'get Ulquiorra to take his medicine' and also gotten an apology out of it. Sidestepping around Ulquiorra, he opened the pill bottle and shook out a single tablet. "Here," he muttered, waiting until the other Espada had sprawled on the end of the couch to hand it to him. "With a full glass of water."

Having learned his lesson with the purple cough drop earlier that morning, Grimmjow watched Ulquiorra carefully as the pill was choked down and followed by several painful gulps of water. When he was sure the coughing spell was actually a coughing spell and not a sign that Ulquiorra was about to die from lack of airflow, Grimmjow sat back down on the other end of the couch.

"You could say thank you," he muttered.

Ulquiorra set the now-empty glass down and leaned back weakly against the cushions. "And you," he gasped, "may begin your explanation of the cat."

Grimmjow sighed, and dragged his blanket up around his shoulders as he pulled his feet up onto the couch. "Okay," he started, "so there were these birds, all right?"

* * *

Aizen sat on his chair overlooking the sand and idly wondered when Szayel would be making his appearance. He knew the Octava was back, having felt the garganta open. Twice, even, which implied that something had gone wrong the first time. It was only a matter of time until Szayel had finished transporting Grimmjow and Ulquiorra, and he was almost as eager to get his hands on the latest parenting book as he was to hear what was plaguing the most obedient of his Espada.

The door to the observation room opened, and Szayel hesitated more than usual before taking the first step inside. He kept his head down until he was within two feet of Aizen, and then dropped to his knees. The package was nowhere in sight.

"I'm so sorry, Aizen-sama," Szayel started, his voice trembling slightly. "I k... k-kicked... your box." He sucked in a deep breath. "I kicked it several times." Szayel wiped sweat from his forehead before continuing in a rush. "I was frustrated, and I just, I had to let it out on something. And the box was there, so I threw it to the ground and I... kicked it. A lot." He reached behind him and held out what remained of the package.

Aizen took the box and examined it, observing the place where the cardboard was torn, the many places where it was scuffed, dented, and otherwise damaged. He turned it over in his hands, and it almost fell apart. Silently, he returned his gaze to the top of Szayel's head.

"They both tried to protect the box, Aizen-sama, but--"

"That's enough, Szayel," he interrupted smoothly. "The rest of your report?"

"...Aizen-sama?"

He could see--anyone would be able to see--that Szayel was waiting to receive his punishment, was hoping that the punishment would be lessened by his honesty in reporting the error. "It strikes me that the last few weeks of your life have been rather like a punishment in and of themselves," Aizen murmured. "I see no reason to add to your... frustrations." He would prefer it, after all, if Szayel could continue to refrain from kicking his patients instead of inanimate objects. "The rest of your report?" he prompted.

"Yes sir." It seemed the Octava was breathing a little easier now, but he still seemed too highly strung. "Grimmjow and Ulquiorra shared a bottle of water while in Karakura. I am going to run some tests to see whether Grimmjow has been reinfected.

"And what does Ulquiorra have?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Szayel hesitated. "I'm not sure at the moment, Aizen-sama. I needed to get the tests set up, and to deliver your package, and to check on Zommari, who is doing much better, by the way, and--"

Aizen waved a hand to cut him off, putting a hint of reiatsu behind the gesture since Szayel still hadn't looked up. Opening the box was as simple as pulling at a torn corner, and Aizen lifted out the food encyclopedia. It was unlikely Ulquiorra would be near the kitchen any time soon, but at least this might help him pass the time in quarantine. He held the book out. "This is Ulquiorra's."

Szayel finally raised his eyes, and reached out for the miraculously undamaged book. "I'll give it to him when I go to collect my test samples, Aizen-sama." Seeming to sense that he'd been dismissed, Szayel stood up and bowed. "I'll be back with a complete report as soon as I can, Aizen-sama. Thank you."

Aizen watched him go, the book held close as though it would escape if given a chance. The Octava hadn't taken up the viscous pink concoction again, and was apparently avoiding the caffeine pills. He had a full time assistant in Aaroniero. His regular duties as an Espada had been put on hold for the quarantine. Even so, Szayel was precariously close to the edge. Aizen didn't think it would take much to push him that last little bit.

He drummed his fingers a few more times and then considered the possible alternatives to having Szayel working first hand on Ulquiorra's mystery illness and Grimmjow's tedious recovery. For the time being, perhaps Aaroniero would be better suited to it. The Novena was already in the East wing twice a day delivering Inoue Orihime's meals. It wouldn't be any trouble at all to make that extra stop.

And then when this had all blown over and his arrancar army was a hardened, disease resistant force, perhaps he could dangle a few of the previously forbidden experiments in Szayel's face as a reward for surviving this ordeal. Yes, Aizen decided. He'd dangle them away, and even let his scientist pick one to perform, too.

* * *

OMAKE: The Hiding Game

Nnoitra stretched out on his couch, trying to get as much airflow as possible to cool off. Nothing happened. It was still hot as hell in here, and the tiny window wasn't doing much. Normally when it got hot, he had Tesla stand in the corner and fan him, but that was out of the question now. Maybe a wet rag would help. He rolled over as he did every time he contemplated getting up for a rag. Rolled over, and promptly fell right off the couch and onto the floor. Cursing, he scooted back and glared up at the couch.

He'd moved from his bed to the couch once the quarantine started, because the couch was in the corner farthest from the wall he shared with Barrigan, and because he felt there was a chance the older Espada would get sick, and also because he was afraid the bacteria could ooze through walls. He'd take whatever protection he could get here where no one could see him acting scared, and if that meant cowering with as much distance between him and everyone else as was possible to obtain without sharing airspace, then he'd do it.

Even if it put his "bed" right against the wall like this and he ended up falling off every time he turned over. He stretched out on the floor and wished he wasn't so sore and headachy. Damn them all, anyway. The weak-asses who got sick were to blame for this need to change his sleeping arrangements. He should have grabbed Tesla before the quarantine and made him serve as a buffer between him and the floor.

He wondered whether his fraccion was sick. Probably. As fraccion went, his was pretty smart, but also pretty weak. The devotion made up for it, of course, but still. When Szayel and Stark had opened the betting pool, he'd put good money on Tesla being laid up with something awful.

There was a knock on the door and Nnoitra felt Aaroniero's reiatsu. The last several times, Nnoitra had debated over whether to answer or not and decided that once in a while, silence was golden. If he didn't answer, he wouldn't be bothered. This time, though, he was feeling pissed off enough to do something about the racket.

"I'm not sick!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. To his utter horror, nothing came out but a faint wheeze.

"I'm not sick," he repeated to himself--softly, because it hurt his throat less this way. He wasn't sick. Really. Not at all. This was just a temporary throat tickle, the way the room was just a little warmer than usual. And sure he was sore. He'd fallen off the damn couch more times than he cared to count. And the headache was caused by all that banging on the door.

He was stronger than any bacteria the world could throw at him, and since he wasn't sick, it didn't matter that he couldn't get his voice loud enough to yell through the door. And it didn't matter that he was now cold enough to pull the blanket down off the couch and curl up in it on the floor where he'd fallen, because he was just too sore to get back up. There was no way he was sick. He was the strongest Espada in the whole damn place. In all of everywhere. And strong people didn't get sick.

Nnoitra clutched at the blanket and shivered, wishing it was just a little warmer in his room. Maybe he should have grabbed Tesla earlier, before the quarantine, and made him serve as a living blanket for when it got so cold and drafty.


	16. Szayel's Spot Test of Doom

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or places, etc. You're reading this on a site devoted to fanfiction. This should be a clear indication that I'm not pretending ownership and therefore should really, really not be sued. Many thanks.

Mini-Summary: Szayel's designed a spot test and color-coded illness chart to help him diagnose the various illnesses floating around Las Noches. So what's the diagnosis for Grimmjow? More sickness, or just the misery of taking care of Ulquiorra? And will Nnoitra survive without Tesla to see to his every whim?

* * *

Chapter 16: Szayel's Spot Test of Doom

Szayel put a gloved hand on the door to his lab and pushed. No Lumina bounding toward him with a tale to tell. No Verona pulling hair and calling names. None of the others, either, since he'd sent them all into hiding with the rest during the quarantine. If he hadn't been so stressed by all the other things on his plate, he'd have paused to appreciate the rare silence in his lab. The peacefulness here might be an illusion, but it was a beautiful one.

A clink off to his right drew his attention to Aaroniero, his temporary lab assistant and apprentice in forcing medicine down people's throats. Szayel paused long enough to be sure that Aaroniero was sorting through the correct set of vials for the evening rounds and then took his own samples to the long table he's cleared off for testing purposes.

Contrary to what Grimmjow might have thought, Szayel had been busy all day, and not just holding hair and cleaning up vomited pie. Szayel tried to clear his mind of the residual irritation over that, and opened the large notebook on the table to the section devoted to the Espada. This was the fruit of an entire day's labor, and he was proud of it. Each arrancar in Las Noches had a sample in storage, and all of those samples had corresponding slides in this notebook. The spot test had proven to be a success, and he had most of the illnesses color coded for ease of identification.

He paused on Grimmjow's old sample. Yellow spots mixed in with the pink indicated the flu, as they did for several other arrancar, most recently Harribel, Yammy, Apache, and Lilynette. There were green spots in the next slide as the yellow faded away, and that was the pneumonia. So far only Cirucci and Gantenbainne had developed pneumonia on top of the flu, and theirs was a pleasant walk through a sunny meadow compared to Grimmjow's earlier desperate trek through a blizzard.

Szayel frowned at the two slides, and then moved his frown to the sample he'd just taken. It would be a simple matter to calibrate his new machine to generate a new color for this strep and mononucleosis combination Ulquiorra apparently had, and once that test was finished, he'd send Grimmjow's sample through. He would count it no small blessing if the resultant slide was clear. After reading the pamphlets the doctor had left with Grimmjow, Szayel didn't want to think about the possibility of Grimmjow being ill again. And with something that sounded worse than the pneumonia, no less.

Crossing his fingers, Szayel loaded Ulquiorra's sample into the machine and recalibrated. Now there was nothing but waiting. Waiting, and praying that Ulquiorra had not managed to infect his temporary roommate. He had expected more common sense from Ulquiorra, if not from Grimmjow. A training session on germs was looking more necessary every time he thought about the two of them and that stupid water bottle.

"So how are they?" Aaroniero rolled the cart he'd been working on over for inspection.

Szayel rubbed his eyes and sighed. "The medicine or the idiots?"

Aaroniero shrugged. "Both, really."

"Well, aside from being absolutely terrified of a teeny little syringe, I'm sure they'll be fine," he lied. Szayel shook his head and then gave the cart a once-over, his mind still focused on the East wing. Really. They'd each sustained worse damage during the ryouka "rescue" mission. It wasn't like being pricked with a needle could somehow trump being sliced nearly in half or locked in a Caja Negación for hours on end. Even their rank insignia involved more pain, what with the reiatsu-laced needle gun and all that.

What almost worried him more, though, was the conversation he'd walked in on. Ulquiorra had been in the middle of describing some sort of giant scaffolding, a wooden frame intended to be perched over hot coals. That in itself was only interesting, but the Cuarta had immediately clammed up once he'd realized the door was open. The portion of Szayel's brain that still had time for idle curiosity wondered what Ulquiorra could possibly have been talking about that he'd be willing share with _Grimmjow_ of all people but not with anyone else.

"Looks fine," Szayel said with a nod of approval at the cart's contents. "It's orderly enough that you won't kill anyone, anyway."

Aaroniero sighed. "At this point, killing someone with a dose of the wrong medicine might be the merciful option." He left the cart by the door and started on a second one. "Actually," he said, pausing to read an ingredient label, "given the sorts of things you're calling medicine, I take that back." He put the beaker on the cart with a disbelieving look. "I'm so glad I can't get sick."

Szayel tuned his assistant's dual-toned muttering out as he flipped through the notebook. Yellow. Red. Purple. Green. Indigo. Brown. Three different shades of orange. There was a veritable rainbow of disease in Las Noches. He wondered what color Ulquiorra's illness would be on the slides, and then his mind drifted back to that overheard conversation. After pondering it for another few minutes and getting nowhere, he shrugged off the scaffold as a plan to hang him over a fire in revenge for the disappearance of his bedside manner last night. The only other idea he could supply was that Ulquiorra was planning repairs to one of the many ruined towers of Las Noches, and revenge seemed more likely at the moment.

A *_ping_* from the machine informed him that Ulquiorra's sample had calibrated successfully, and he took a deep breath before removing the slide: the regular background field of pink, but with blue and grey spots. The accompanying readout indicated that blue was mononucleosis and grey was strep. Szayel carefully inserted the slide into Ulquiorra's section of the notebook and then placed Grimmjow's sample in the machine. He would like to think his week couldn't get worse, but the logical part of him knew that these results could easily crush any hope he had of sleeping in the next month.

There was a positive, though, however hard it was to believe. Somehow, for some reason, Grimmjow had already started Ulquiorra on the antibiotics, and correctly no less. Szayel couldn't fathom the motive behind it, but when he placed that beside the blasted water bottle incident and this new secret-sharing, he came to one conclusion: He and Stark would easily wipe out the competition in the Las Noches betting pool. At the moment, it was the only thing he could look forward to and not shudder. He'd even win over Ichimaru unless the shinigami had changed his bet recently. Maybe he would stop by Findor's room to check.

A new set of beeps snapped his mind back to the machine and the spot test it had just completed. Szayel closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and pulled the slide out. He opened his eyes. "Fuck." There was blue everywhere. This wasn't just a recent infection that would come to full power in a month. This was as current an infection as Ulquiorra's. Grimmjow couldn't be more than a week behind.

Aaroniero stopped in the middle of rearranging his second cart and looked over at him. "Let's not say 'fuck,'" the low voice pleaded. "Let's say something else, like, 'Oh, good. The test is clear and there's nothing to worry about,'" he finished in the high voice.

Szayel shot him a withering glare and flashed the slide at him. "Oh, I assure you, 'fuck' is the appropriate response, Aaroniero."

"Damn it!" The Novena set a bottle down with a sharp _clack_. "Is it too much to ask that the bastard only get deathly ill _once_ this year? He's supposed to be taking care of Ulquiorra. Now _I_ have to!" his high voice whined.

Try as he might, Szayel couldn't muster up any sympathy for Aaroniero's newly increased workload. He had his own workload to consider, after all. Like the next step, which involved telling Grimmjow that he was due for a month of exhausted misery. Or the step after that, where he had to report that he'd messed things up and gotten Grimmjow--Aizen's favorite Espada for reasons that still escaped him--sick _again _by leaving him unattended with Ulquiorra. The betting pool was still firmly in his grasp, but he doubted he'd live to see his winnings.

* * *

Szayel paused by the door to Ulquiorra's room. When this nightmare had started, he'd felt similar dread at the thought of entering Grimmjow's room. He almost laughed at his earlier notion that Ulquiorra would be a better patient. The Cuarta may be obedient, but that obedience was entirely Aizen's to command. Szayel didn't hold much hope that Ulquiorra would believe him or take his direction after the disaster last night with the gargling. The best he could hope for here was that Ulquiorra was so deeply asleep that he only had to deal with Grimmjow.

Shrugging his shoulder bag to a more comfortable position, Szayel pushed open the door and peeked in. They were still on the couch, but not sulking at opposite ends as he'd left them after taking samples. Now, they were... well, he was glad he'd brought the camera for recording the symptoms Nnoitra was likely hiding.

Ulquiorra was sprawled on one side of the couch with one foot stretched down the length of the couch and the other one on the floor. His head was tipped back over the arm of the couch in what would have been quite painful if he'd been any less exhausted. Very faint snoring indicated that his airway would need adjusting before Szayel would feel safe leaving him there.

Grimmjow was perhaps in an even more compromising position, tangled up in the blanket with his head resting on Ulquiorra's leg. Szayel bit back a laugh when he noticed the Sexta's fingers curled in the fabric of Ulquiorra's hakama. This was the second time he'd seen Grimmjow practically cuddling someone he hated, and Szayel had to admit it was easier to stomach the second time around. Also more useful.

He quietly shut the door behind him and dug out the camera. If he gained nothing else from this, he'd at least have blackmail material to last a year. He flicked the recorder on and slowly panned the length of the couch, pausing to zoom in on Ulquiorra's open, snoring mouth and Grimmjow's loosely clenched fingers. He'd be hard pressed to find two Espada who disliked each other more than these two, on the surface at least. Clearly there was something else going on here. That, or they were both so tired and miserable that even their mutual antagonism could be put aside for a moment.

Satisfied with his footage, Szayel turned the camera off and stashed it out of sight at the bottom of his bag of supplies. Being sure to keep his back to the two slumbering Espada on the couch, he deliberately clinked two medicine bottles together as he dug out his collection of slides. When he heard fabric shifting on the couch behind him, he turned around and hefted the slides onto the table.

"Glad to see you awake," he murmured as Grimmjow rubbed at his eyes and sat back against the couch.

"Uh-huh." Grimmjow blinked up at him, and then at the bag. "What all you got in there?"

Szayel followed his worried gaze and smiled. "For you? Just a slide show. No meds. You're safe enough."

"Who's the unlucky bastard, then?"

"No one." Szayel rolled his eyes. "Ulquiorra's got a few books in here, and Nnoitra's got some samples in his future. That's all." He steeled himself for the conversation ahead. "Now we have to talk."

Szayel put a hand on the stack of slides and held up the first one so Grimmjow could see the colors. "See the pink spots?"

Grimmjow nodded, looking disgruntled about the whole thing.

"Those are the background," Szayel explained. "Someone who is healthy will only have pink spots." He paused. "See the blue spots? The grey?"

"Yeah," Grimmjow said, "but do we really need to do this whole bedtime story thing, complete with pictures?"

Szayel glared at him. "Shut up. This'll be important, so pay attention. This slide is a copy of Ulquiorra's test results. The blue is mono. The grey is strep.

Grimmjow nodded. "Fine. They're everywhere. He's sick as a dog. I know this without seeing rainbow polka dots."

Szayel put the card face down in a separate stack, and held up a new one, ignoring the attitude he was getting. "My results. Note that it's all pink." He set that aside and picked up a third. "Stark's," he said, holding it for a moment and setting it in the viewed pile. He continued through the stack, announcing Harribel's, Tesla's, Ggio's, Lilynette's, Barrigan's, Menoly's Sun-sun's, Wonderweiss's, and Dordonii's in turn. There was only one card left in the first pile. "Do you see a trend?"

Grimmjow looked at the pile of slides and frowned. "So blue is mono, grey is strep, and pink is healthy?"

"Yes."

"And all those other colors are some other kind of sick."

Szayel nodded. "Correct. The trend?" he prompted.

Grimmjow tilted his head to one side. "Only Ulquiorra has mono and strep?"

"Close." Szayel held up the last card on the table and paused. "This is yours."

"No it's not." The response was immediate.

Szayel sighed. Denial was not what he wanted to put up with at the moment. "Yes, in fact, it is. I ran it twice." He waited while Grimmjow squinted at the card.

"You're sure that's not Ulquiorra's again?"

"Do you see any grey spots?"

Grimmjow reached out and took the card from him, staring at it intensely. "No, but I'm not looking hard enough. They're in there. Give me time and I'll pick 'em out."

Szayel retrieved the first card and pushed it toward Grimmjow. "That's Ulquiorra's if you'd like to compare. You've got mono, Grimmjow. If you're not miserable now, you will be in a few days, tops. By my estimates, you're not a full week behind him."

"That's not even possible!" Grimmjow flung his card back onto the table and folded his arms over his chest.

And now it was time for gentle explanation, despite the fact that Szayel felt more like telling Grimmjow to suck it up and deal. "What little immune system you started out with was fried by the influenza and pneumonia. In fact, given the incubation period mentioned in the materials the doctor gave you, you've likely had this in your system for weeks without knowing it. And--"

"But I was already sick!" Grimmjow interrupted. "It's not my turn any more. This isn't fair!"

Szayel stared at him. "Not fair? I'll tell you what isn't fair, Grimmjow. Mono is spread via saliva, and my guess is Nnoitra will come down with this in about two week's time because you spat at him. And after you? He's the last person I want to deal with as a doctor. That's what's not fair."

Grimmjow was quiet for a moment, turning the idea around in his mind. "I didn't mean to get him sick. I just wanted him out of my room."

"I doubt the germs care much what your intentions were, Grimmjow," Szayel said, feeling the ever-present headache ratchet up a notch. "The point is--"

"But--"

"Look, I don't have time to convince you of this. You both have mono." Szayel jabbed his finger at sleeping Ulquiorra. "He has strep, too. You're both going to be flat on your backs for a month or more, and I can only hope you manage to keep energetic enough to take care of him until you can trade places again as he recovers."

He watched Grimmjow's face run through several different emotions in turn, alternating between fury, exhaustion, confusion, disbelief, denial, and more. When he was sure there wouldn't be an outburst, he got up and pulled the two books out of his bag. "The encyclopedia is from Aizen. The other is from Zommari. He said Ulquiorra had asked for it a couple of weeks ago."

Szayel closed up the bag and headed for the door, pausing to think of the other instruction he'd wanted to give them, but coming up blank. Grimmjow seemed slightly distracted by the second book. That was good. Maybe it would keep him occupied during the few days of energy he had remaining. _Ah, energy,_ he thought. _That was it._

"Aaroniero is going to be bringing you meals while you're sick. One in the morning, one in the evening. Same schedule as the prisoner. You are _both _going to _eat_ those meals." He watched Grimmjow read the back cover of the book, and snapped his fingers with a scowl. Once he had the Sexta's attention, he continued. "Pay attention. You need to make Ulquiorra eat. You need to eat, yourself, also. It'll help you retain as much strength as possible, and you may heal faster. Aaroniero will be keeping an eye on you two to monitor for complications. Questions?"

Grimmjow shrugged. "As long as I don't have to eat your cooking or his," he said with a gesture toward Ulquiorra. "After all, no one's food could be much worse than yours, right? The two of you together could poison a whole nation."

Szayel tried not to be angry about the jab at his rice-making skills, and was only marginally successful. Thankfully, he didn't have to stick around and listen since he wasn't the one staying over. He was halfway through the door when Grimmjow caught his attention again.

"Hey, Pink! Hang on a sec. If I've had this junk in me for weeks, then sharing the water today didn't do jack shit." Grimmjow pointed a finger at him. "You owe me an apology."

Szayel shrugged. "Fine. I'm terribly sorry for lecturing you on germs. To make it up to you, I'll let you nurse Nnoitra back to health when he gets sick with this. Sound good?"

Grimmjow flipped him off. "You know what? Keep your fucking apology. I don't want it that bad." He swung his feet up to rest on Ulquiorra's torso with enough force to bruise the smaller Espada, and opened Zommari's book.

Szayel blinked as Ulquiorra shifted slightly but didn't wake up from the rough treatment. Perhaps the pamphlet described a milder, human form of mononucleosis than an arrancar was able to contract. Given how much worse all the other sicknesses were when he compared them to the research he'd done around Karakura, it wouldn't surprise him. "Keep an eye on him, okay, Grimmjow?"

"Sure thing," Grimmjow muttered, not looking up from the page. "The little twerp stops breathing, I'll kick him 'till he wakes up."

Szayel paused in the doorway for a moment before letting it close behind him as he slipped down the hall toward Nnoitra's room. He made a mental note to send Aaroniero in to check on them more frequently than they'd planned, and to cart in a second couch for Ulquiorra's safety. As he walked to the dead end that was Nnoitra's room in the hallway, he wondered whether Ulquiorra would be more appreciative of his bedside manner after experiencing Grimmjow's. Given the kicking, there was a chance.

Szayel stared at the crooked five on Nnoitra's door and resisted the urge to straighten it out. Aaroniero had mentioned that Nnoitra had stopped talking entirely, and the silence seemed to be a bad sign given the previous yelling that he was fine. He pushed the number and wasn't surprised when the door didn't budge. For all his bluster about being the strongest, Nnoitra was the only one of them who actually kept his door locked to any reiatsu but Tesla's and his own. Szayel had ragged on him about it from time to time in the past, but it didn't seem prudent to do so now.

"Nnoitra!" he called. "I need to take a few samples, so open up."

There was a thump from inside the room, probably Nnoitra dropping something, or hurling something at the door. Szayel waited for over a minute while the rustling got louder and then stopped. He knocked on the door. There was no response.

"Are you sick?" he asked through the door.

After a moment, he could hear Nnoitra cough and then the shuffling of fabric on the floor that got louder as the fabric got closer. Szayel put his ear to the door in case Nnoitra's voice was gone.

"No," came a faint rasp from the other side. "So go away, already." This was followed by more coughing and a low moan.

Szayel rolled his eyes at the door. "You aren't going to get better if you don't admit you need help in the first place." He rubbed his temples and planned his strategy for getting into the room. "Without any medicine, you might die, Nnoitra," he called. "Do you want to die?"

"I'd love to die," Nnoitra said. "Then it'd be over." He coughed. "Now go away."

Szayel stared at the door for longer than was strictly necessary. The entire East wing was composed of crazy people. What was more, Nnoitra, Grimmjow, and Ulquiorra were more alike in illness than any one of the three would have acknowledged. Szayel recalled the details on the mononucleosis pamphlet and counted days since Grimmjow had spat at Nnoitra. There was plenty of time to collect a sample later, and Szayel decided to leave well enough alone for the time being. At least there was one arrancar in Las Noches who knew how to avoid contaminating others.

* * *

OMAKE: "Ice Cream, Anyone?"

Nodding a hello to Jinta and Ururu in the yard, Ishida slid open the shoji to the Urahara Shoten and walked inside, ice cream bucket in hand. It was really a shame the bucket hadn't fit inside his Sunflower Tailor bag, but he'd hauled the thing all the way across Karakura without getting ice cream on his clothes, so he really couldn't complain. As an added plus, the headache he'd been nursing since encountering his pink-haired nemesis had subsided at the thought of using this bucket against him somehow.

The entire shop shuddered suddenly, and a stack of candied Chappies fell off one of the shelves. They'd have to find another place to train soon, or else find someone to manage the shop while Tessai maintained a barrier. Already, Abarai and Sado together were responsible for damaging hundreds of dollars of merchandise, and Ishida didn't imagine Urahara would stand for much more of this. At least Kurosaki trained elsewhere.

He opened the trap door and clambered down the ladder the best he could with one hand clutching the empty bucket. Despite the inconvenience of it, this underground area was the meeting place of choice lately, and also the most likely bet for finding the one man he knew who could turn this ice cream bucket into a weapon.

"Good, good," Urahara said, clapping like an excited child. "Now try it the other way again."

Ishida sighed, wondering how someone who had so much to lose could be so cheerful when training others. He and Yoruichi both were remarkably light-hearted since the truce, as though keeping a happy heart would delay the inevitable war looming in their future.

"Urahara-san," he said, holding out the bucket. "Another sighting."

Much to his chagrin, Urahara wasn't the only one to turn around and give him full attention. Ishida found his cheeks burning when Yoruichi looked up from her curled position in Urahara's lap. She'd been almost exclusively in cat form since getting the flu earlier, but certain images were just too soul-scarring to be waved away by fur and a tail. He almost wished he wasn't immune to the Shinigami memory device, because that little rendezvous in the park was something he'd prefer to forget.

"Oh?" Urahara snapped his fan closed, the carefree manner gone in an instant. "Details."

Ishida avoided looking at Yoruichi's perked ears and focused instead on what he'd seen at Hojo's. "It was a pair of them," he said. "Eating ice cream." He let Urahara take the bucket from him before continuing. "From the descriptions, I think it was Grimmjow and Ulquiorra. Szayel Aporro came later in a garganta to collect them."

"And how is Grimmjow these days?" Yoruichi asked, the tip of her tail flicking from one side to the other.

A shout from the side saved him from having to answer the question, and he looked over to see Abarai's Hikotsu Taiho spitting out an amplified La Muerte. Abarai let out a whoop as the energy blast took out a large portion of the wall, and high-fived Sado. For his part, Sado smiled, letting his armor revert to normal as the two made their way over. Their combo seemed to be coming together nicely.

"All right! Ice cream!" Abarai swooped an arm in and grabbed at the bucket. His face fell when he looked inside. "The hell? There isn't any left, you selfish bastard!"

Ishida pushed his glasses up his nose. "It's just the bucket. I was thinking there might be something useful there. Like trace DNA or saliva or something. Maybe you can use it to make those untraceable gigais traceable."

Urahara held his hand out for the bucket, a slow smile spreading over his face. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Notes: Poor Chad. Shafted for speaking parts in the manga, and now here, too. At least he's getting to work on some seriously neat combat techniques to keep the manga outcome from taking place.


	17. Bad Influences

Disclaimer: Fanfiction means that I don't own Bleach or the characters and places in Bleach. It also means I'm not making money on this. I'd like it to mean you won't sue me.

Mini-Summary: What all goes on during a day in the life of Aaroniero, medical apprentice? When the patients include Grimmjow and Ulquiorra, it can't be pleasant. Is there any hope?

* * *

Chapter 17: "Bad Influences"

Aaroniero tapped the spoon against the side of the pot he was currently tending, and leaned forward to smell the results of his hour in the kitchen. It smelled about like he remembered from the Shiba boy's memories, and if the smells Ulquiorra's cooking had created were any indication, his own culinary efforts were better than passable.

Satisfied, Aaroniero put the spoon in the sink and poured the soup into three bowls. If he'd ever been told that he'd spend time as an Espada wearing an apron and cooking for bedridden superiors, he would never have believed it. Still, kitchen duty was turning out to be a welcome break from wheeling the medicine cart up and down the halls. By now, he was thoroughly hated by every single arrancar he visited, and some of the more swiftly recovering patients had taken to throwing things at him when he came near. It was enough to make him glad he got to give them the various toxins Szayel considered to be beneficial for their consumption.

He surveyed the cart with its trio of soup bowls. There was something missing, and he couldn't think of what it was. There was rice--actual rice, and not the failure Szayel had shown him as inspiration, though how anyone could destroy a dish as simple as steamed rice was beyond him--along with some grilled fish and pickled ginger. A very nice morning meal, if his memories served well. But still missing something.

Aaroniero shrugged, and tossed a handful of chopsticks and silverware onto the tray. There was water on the East wing, and if they were still as sick as they'd been when he was there last night to move the second couch into the room, they'd be better off with water anyway. The prisoner wasn't picky at all about meal time, so she was as much a concern as the other two.

And boy had they been sick, the both of them. He'd hardly believed Szayel when the Octava had described the symptoms. It needed to be seen, apparently. Grimmjow had been all right, if hoarse and a touch surlier than usual--another thing needed to be seen to be believed. Ulquiorra, though... Ulquiorra had hardly noticed the addition of a second couch, despite all the grunting Aaroniero had done in shouldering the thing into the room all on his own, and Aaroniero had had to carry him from Grimmjow's couch to the new one.

He rinsed the pot out and put it in the sink to be washed later. First things first, after all. He rolled the cart out of the kitchen and down the hall, mentally replaying his to do list. Feed the prisoner, and make it quick or she'd start talking. Then head next door to convince his patients that food was good for them and make sure Ulquiorra had taken this morning's medicine. Try to get into Nnoitra's room to dose the fool. Check in with Szayel. After that, there was no telling what his day held. Szayel might have him mixing medicine, or dosing arrancar, or even just cleaning the lab.

With a deep breath for luck, Aaroniero pushed open the prisoner's door and wheeled the cart in. "Breakfast," the high voice called out. He set out the dishes for her breakfast while she rolled over on the couch and rubbed at her eyes. If he was quick, there was a chance he'd make it out the door before she was awake enough to ask him questions about the extra dishes.

"Why so much food?" she asked groggily.

He bit back a curse. "It doesn't matter. I'll be back tonight. Eat up and all that." Aaroniero ignored the hurt expression that flitted over her face and stacked last night's dinner dishes on the tray for washing. He closed the door on her response, and sighed once safely out of her reach. He wasn't sure how Ulquiorra had managed so long with the questions, the longing looks, the overwhelming loneliness she'd filled that room with.

The first time he'd brought her meal, he'd worn Kaien's face, thinking it would put her more at ease than his usual appearance. She'd burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. When he'd come back to take the dishes, the food hadn't been touched and she refused to even look up at him, despite that he'd had his mask on instead of a face. After that, things had been better, if better meant palpable desperation for company. The entire feeding process made him uncomfortable, and he couldn't wait until Ulquiorra was well enough to resume the duty.

Until then, there was Ulquiorra himself to deal with. And he had a feeling he'd be dealing with the Cuarta a lot since Grimmjow was rapidly falling prey to the mono himself if last night was any indication. Szayel had been alarmed at his report last night, but after a moment's thought, had seemed relieved. Against his better judgment, Aaroniero had asked about the relief, hoping that maybe their workload would be reduced.

He should have known it wouldn't be good news like that, though. No, it had been the sort of bad news that Szayel took as the building block of a new theory. The Octava's latest was that Grimmjow's slow recovery from the pneumonia had been masking the mono symptoms. Aaroniero didn't see how this could possibly have brought Szayel any relief, but he felt better off not understanding the scientist.

Aaroniero hesitated a moment with his hand on the door, and then pushed it open. He seemed to be pausing at doorways more than usual lately. Better to just get it over with: set out breakfast, gather dinner dishes, check the medicine, make sure they were both breathing, and get out as fast as he could.

He'd expected them both to be asleep, and they were. He'd also expected the dishes from last night to be cleared, but they hadn't been touched. They sat on the center table exactly where he'd put them, napkins spotless, teacups full, plates heaping with food. Aaroniero tried not be upset by this blatant disregard for all the effort he'd gone through to prepare that meal, and turned his attention to the two ingrates who should have eaten said meal.

They were sprawled out on their respective couches, just as he'd left them. Neither of them had so much as turned over during the night. Aaroniero took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He tried to think of how Szayel would handle the situation. He'd probably threaten them with needles, or pull out some similarly terrifying consequence for their lack of action. Since he had nothing like that at hand, that wouldn't work. Instead, he let the door close behind him with a loud thud.

"Okay, guys," he started, "give me a break, here, all right?" There was no reaction. He let the deeper, louder voice take over. "Hey! Seriously, I don't have time for this!"

Grimmjow mumbled something and shifted slightly, but didn't open his eyes.

Aaroniero left the cart by the door and walked over to shake the Sexta's shoulder. "You two are supposed to be taking care of each other in here!"

A bright blue eye cracked open and stared at him for a moment. "He wants to sleep," Grimmjow whispered, his voice cracking. "I want to sleep," he continued. "It works out great."

"You can sleep all you want, but you need to eat."

The eye closed. "So?"

"So?" Aaroniero repeated incredulously. "You haven't even glanced at the meal I brought you last night."

"So?"

Aaroniero clenched a fist and with a certain amount of effort refrained from smacking Grimmjow right off the couch. It took even more effort to keep his voice reasonable. "Grimmjow, you need to get up and eat. And you need to get Ulquiorra up, too. Don't you want to force him to eat? Like he did to you?"

There was a moment of silence before Grimmjow answered. "Takes too much energy."

"Eating the food will give you energy," he reminded, knowing full well that logic was lost on Grimmjow but hoping there'd be some effect.

"No thanks."

Aaroniero felt his shoulders tense. Not only was it too early in the morning to deal with this, but all told, this was looking like the formal ruination of an already doomed day. He could have spared himself the torture for another hour at least, but no, he had to get a head start. All his efforts in the kitchen were going to waste, and these unappreciative lay-abouts were just going to sleep right through a second meal if he let them. And this didn't even take the medicine into consideration. Damn it all, he had a whole fortress worth of arrancar to play nursemaid for, and these two were determined to make his life that much worse. He felt like screaming.

When a solid minute passed and the urge didn't go away, he gave up and indulged it. "Get your blue-haired ass up and eat this meal I slaved over!" he yelled into Grimmjow's ear.

Grimmjow opened both eyes and stared impassively at him, not impressed in the slightest. Ulquiorra groaned, though, and Aaroniero took this as an opportunity to address someone with hopefully more reason.

"And you," he said, turning toward Ulquiorra, "you need to take that medicine."

"No I don't," Ulquiorra croaked, turning his head a fraction of an inch to meet his gaze fully.

Aaroniero tilted his head to the side, confused. "You-- What?"

"I already took it."

There was an uneasy silence in the room, broken only by Grimmjow clearing his throat and pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. Aaroniero tried unsuccessfully to chase off the cold feeling creeping into his midsection. Really, if he'd already taken the medicine, there was nothing to worry about. Still, there was that feeling of wrongness.

"You already took it?" he asked.

Ulquiorra's eyes were somehow more piercing than usual, despite his obvious exhaustion. "Yes," he confirmed. "We thought it would save time if I ate them all at once."

Aaroniero knew this cold feeling. It was the same as when the Kuchiki brat stabbed him with the ice blade, and every bit as horrifying. "N-no, you didn't," he pleaded, his voice sounding pitifully tiny to his own ears.

"He _didn't,_" Aaroniero insisted, looking at Grimmjow this time.

The Sexta only shrugged and closed his eyes again.

Aaroniero turned back to Ulquiorra, who blinked at him, but didn't elaborate. "Tell me you didn't do that!" he screamed, the cold spreading as his heart beat faster and his stomach spasmed. "Shit! _Shit!_ Where's Szayel?!"

Aaroniero abandoned his patients and the breakfast cart, flung open the door so hard it slammed against the wall, and then tore off down the hallway, screaming for Szayel so loudly that he missed hearing Grimmjow chuckle and mutter "nice one" to Ulquiorra.

After nearly fifteen minutes of frantic searching, he finally found the Octava in Stark's room, mixing something clear in a beaker while Stark heaved into a bowl. "We have an emergency," he panted, hanging onto the door frame while he sucked in the breath to continue. "Ulquiorra took all the antibiotics in one dose!"

Szayel paused, set the beaker down on the table, and then slowly turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "Did you see the bottle?" he asked, calmer than Aaroniero would have thought possible.

"_What?!_" Aaroniero straightened up and pressed a gloved hand to his gut. "Ulquiorra said it _himself_." Why wasn't Szayel halfway to the East wing by now? Did he want to call down Aizen's wrath by letting the Cuarta die? Was he that much more cracked in the head than he'd been last night?

Szayel shrugged, and then filled a syringe from the beaker and tapped it out. He took the bowl from Stark and handed him a shot glass of something viscous and green. "I think he lied to you, Aaroniero."

Stark downed the medicine and wiped a hand across his mouth with a grimace. "See?" he managed to choke out. "Pay up." He doubled over clutching his stomach, and Szayel slid a new bowl under his face in time to catch a tiny dribble of green.

"But Ulquiorra doesn't lie," Aaroniero insisted. He shouldn't have had to remind them of this at all, but apparently, they had lost their minds, so he elaborated. "Not ever. Not to anyone. He thinks it's beneath him." He flung his hands up when this didn't prompt a response from them. "What's _wrong _with you two?!"

Szayel readied the syringe and injected the dose into Stark's shoulder. "Well, we'll go check on him in a minute," he said dismissively, holding a cotton ball against the injection site. "That should help," he told Stark. "Keep drinking water, even if it doesn't stay down. We'll knock this out if it kills you," he swore.

Stark looked up at him, strangely more resigned than horrified. "That's what you said the last three times I got this." He retched, but nothing came up. "I'm kind of _hoping _it kills me this time."

"Well, it's a different strain each time, Stark." Szayel handed him a glass of water with a straw. The twitching in his right eye was the only sign of irritation. "If Lilynette didn't keep sneaking in to visit you, you might actually stay healthy for a while. I'll be back. Slow sips."

Aaroniero watched Szayel put the various mixtures back onto the cart and toss the needle into the box he was using as a temporary biohazard unit. He'd have thought Szayel would take off for Ulquiorra's room as soon as he'd heard the news. This other reaction really didn't make any sense to him, but at least he could pass off blame on Szayel if there was anything fatally wrong in the East wing. Eventually, the Octava grabbed his bag and nodded for Aaroniero to lead the way.

"You really think he lied?" Aaroniero asked, his breathing under control again.

Szayel looked over at him, absolutely serious. "If I thought he'd downed a whole bottle of antibiotics, I'd be pumping his stomach thirty minutes ago."

Aaroniero let that sink in for a moment. He couldn't quite tell how Szayel had come to the conclusion that Ulquiorra had lied when the Cuarta was the last Espada anyone would expect to do so. "Why would you assume he was lying?"

Pink hair slid through gloved fingers as Szayel rubbed his scalp. "Grimmjow knows antibiotics well. He would never let Ulquiorra take more than was recommended. The only real fear there is that he won't make Ulquiorra take any medicine at all." Szayel sighed. "We'll count pills when we get there. If there aren't the right number, then my guess is there will be one too many in the bottle. The only way they'll be gone is if Ulquiorra threw them out."

Aaroniero nodded. That did make a certain amount of sense. It didn't explain Ulquiorra's motive for lying, though. That was a completely new development, and one he hadn't expected. It seemed to indicate the Sexta and Cuarta were coming to an understanding. He thought about his wager in the betting pool. He, along with roughly half of Las Noches, had his money on Ulquiorra killing Grimmjow before the quarantine was over. At this rate, it was looking like he'd lose.

"Is it too late to change my wager?" he asked.

Szayel shrugged. "I'm not sure. Talk to Findor. He took over the books to save me time and keep things fair."

Aaroniero grunted. Findor. They didn't exactly get along, but he couldn't say they hated each other, either. Maybe the fraccion would let him change his wager if he asked nicely. Or if he bribed him with something. There were lots of wagers to choose from. Most of Las Noches had bet that there'd be a fatality or two on the East wing before quarantine got lifted, though there was a lot of disagreement about who would kill whom, and when, and how. A small group, including Aizen, if Ichimaru was to be trusted, was holding out hope that Ulquiorra would have a positive influence on Grimmjow after being locked up with him for two weeks. Only one person--Stark--thought Grimmjow would rub off on Ulquiorra. From what Aaroniero had seen this morning, he might try to join Stark in that wager.

"What did you bet, Szayel?"

Szayel raised an eyebrow at him. "Officially, I'm out of the pool." He yawned and rubbed at his twitching eye. "No inside information allowed."

"And unofficially?" Aaroniero prompted.

"Stark and I are splitting his take."

* * *

Later that evening, after cleaning up the tofu he'd left to burn in the oven, Aaroniero found himself outside Tousen's room clutching a bottle of medicine and the tiniest spoon he'd ever seen and wondering who was singing. This was the first time Szayel had sent him on this particular assignment, and he was terrified of getting something wrong. Tousen was, after all, the one who'd chopped off an Espada's arm for talking back to him. Even if that Espada had been Grimmjow and fully deserving of such treatment, there was no telling what the man'd do if Aaroniero upset him tonight.

After standing by the door for longer was strictly necessary, Aaroniero steeled himself and knocked. The singing stopped, and he heard a muffled response inviting him in. With a sigh, he followed the order.

Inside, Tousen sat on a couch rocking a bundled, fleecy blanket on his lap. From this angle, Aaroniero could just make out Wonderweiss's wispy blond hair as the smaller arrancar curled up in the blanket. Wonderweiss coughed a little and buried his face into Tousen's chest, tiny fingers grabbing for a tighter purchase on the commander's orange sash.

The room was largely empty, but everything that was present was highly textured. There were two different kinds of carpet, and several different fabrics in the many throws across the furniture. Aaroniero was surprised that the colors matched. Maybe Aizen had helped with the decorating. Ichimaru wouldn't have put together something this visually appealing, preferring, Aaroniero was sure, to prank his colleague by choosing garish colors.

Tousen looked up from rocking Wonderweiss and motioned for him to approach. "Szayel must be busy if he sent you, Aaroniero."

Aaroniero nodded, and then mentally kicked himself for nodding to a blind man. "Yes," he said. "Three spoons of this for tonight, and then three more in the morning." There was a silence. "Do you want me to do this, or leave the medicine here?" He crossed his fingers and hoped that Tousen would send him away.

"It's rude to cross your fingers like that, Aaroniero," Tousen reprimanded. "Leave the medicine on the table."

Aaroniero stared, racking his brain for an explanation for Tousen knowing about the fingers. Nothing came to him, and he set the medicine and spoon down as directed before he could be reprimanded for a delay. "I'll be on my way, then," he said, backing out of the room. "Unless you need anything, sir?"

"No." Tousen waved him away and then stroked Wonderweiss's bangs out of his face.

Thankful for the reprieve, Aaroniero closed the door behind him and pretended that he didn't hear one of their mighty commanders resume his lullaby.

By the time he'd wheeled the dinner cart to the East wing, he'd come to the uncomfortable realization that their three commanders--or at least two of them, if the rumors about Grimmjow and Aizen were to be believed--had gaping soft spots for certain favorites, and that he wasn't anyone's favorite.

Aaroniero sighed and opened the prisoner's door. "Dinner," he muttered, pulling the cart along with him. He was so preoccupied with his sense of rejection that he forgot to be quick enough to escape questioning. The prisoner seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"Three meals?" the woman asked, her knuckles white from gripping the side of the cart. "Who else is eating? Can I eat with them? Please?" She looked up at him, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"Let go of the cart," he ground out, ignoring her feelings. If he was going to be rejected, he didn't see why she shouldn't be, also. "It doesn't concern you."

The hands didn't move. "I want to know," she insisted. "I won't let go until I do." There was a tense silence between them. "Ulquiorra would tell me. He's not afraid to talk to me."

"I'm not afraid," Aaroniero snapped. "I'm stressed. Now let go or I'll kill your pet."

Orihime glared up at him and ignored the threat. "People are getting sick, aren't they?" she challenged. "Grimmjow was sick a few weeks ago, when that little deer-antlered arrancar was born. He was feverish when he came to get me."

"Shut up, human." Aaroniero jerked the cart away, but she took a matching step forward, her eyes triumphant.

"And you were screaming earlier this morning," she said. "What's going on? I know my friends aren't back because you made a truce."

Aaroniero let out an angry breath. This whole day had sucked, right from the start. This meal drop off was supposed to be the last thing he did, and it just figured it would be as miserable an experience as the earlier feeding had been. He wondered what would happen if he just played along. Surely admitting defeat would at least speed this latest event along.

"If you must know," he said, "Grimmjow and Ulquiorra are sick. With something called mono. You may not eat with them. Now let go of the cart so I can do my job."

"Mono?" Her face scrunched up in what he assumed was either sympathy or disgust. "Oh, I've had that. They must be miserable."

Aaroniero filtered her expression into the sympathy category and then froze when her words sank in fully. "You've had this?"

She nodded, releasing the cart since it seemed he was being more receptive. "Mhm! I got it earlier than everyone else, so I was able to take care of Tatsuki when she got it." Orihime laughed softly. "She was really sick, but it was the least I could do for her."

"You took care of this girl." Aaroniero wondered if it was too soon to allow hope back into his emotional repertoire. "And you didn't become re-infected?"

"Oh, no," she insisted, taking her plate off the cart and setting it on the table before sitting down to eat. "You only get it once. Then you're immune to it."

Aaroniero mentally replayed the words, checking to be sure he'd heard each one correctly. When he'd confirmed his hearing, there was a single question that burned brightly at the front of his mind. He was almost too excited to ask it, but managed after several seconds.

"Can you cook?"

* * *

OMAKE: "Not the Best Bedtime Reading Material"

Grimmjow sighed and stared up at the ceiling. He'd preferred it when Ulquiorra was so tired nothing could wake him. Now, the Cuarta was so feverish nothing could keep the nightmares away. The crap Szayel had made them drink earlier may have given them more energy, but he'd trade the energy for a good night's sleep. If only Ulquiorra had slept all afternoon, he wouldn't have been reading that damn book Aizen gave him.

He looked over to the other couch, where Ulquiorra thrashed back and forth and generally got his blanket in a tangle. "Hey!"

There was no response. He still had vague memories of his own nightmares, and even though he'd gladly saddle Szayel with them, he thought he might as well save Ulquiorra from whatever was plaguing his sleep. With a muttered curse, Grimmjow got up and shuffled over to the other Espada. He shook Ulquiorra's shoulder. "Ulquiorra. You okay?"

Ulquiorra's eyes shot open and he let out a breath. He grabbed at Grimmjow's collar. "The etymology doesn't make sense," he whispered.

Grimmjow stared at him. "The what, now?"

Ulquiorra shook his head weakly. "Never mind that. It isn't at all like an egg."

He blinked down at Ulquiorra and wondered whether it was worth his time to figure out what he was talking about. After a minute, he decided he'd rather not know what wasn't like an egg, or what that had to do with anything. "It's all in your head, Ulquiorra," he reassured. "Trust me on that."

He freed his collar from the smaller Espada's grip and dragged himself back to his couch. "Just think of something more pleasant if you've got any pleasant thoughts in that head of yours."

Several minutes passed before Ulquiorra spoke again. "It doesn't even taste like eggs."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. If Ulquiorra's cooking was coming back to haunt him, it served him right. "That's because you cooked it in butter and drenched it in honey. Probably dumped wasabi powder on top, too."

"No," Ulquiorra insisted, "the thing itself."

Despite himself, Grimmjow took the bait. "What?"

"It doesn't look like an egg, feel like an egg, smell like an egg..." Ulquiorra turned over to face him across the room. "It isn't at all like an egg, Grimmjow."

Grimmjow blinked as he realized Ulquiorra was fully awake. However it had started, this wasn't a fever dream anymore. Ulquiorra was actually bringing his brain's fevered delusions into a conscious discussion. Clearly he was trapped in here with a madman.

"Well?" Ulquiorra asked, obviously expecting a response.

Grimmjow glared across the room. Hell, if Ulquiorra was going to do this to him, he'd get even the best way possible. "Bet it sounds like an egg," he muttered.

"No." Ulquiorra tried to fling a pillow at him, and succeeded only in knocking it off the couch. "There is nothing eggish about it!" Ulquiorra rubbed his eyes and tugged at the lock of hair that fell across his face, clearly agonizing over this item that was not an egg.

Grimmjow almost laughed at him, but remembered seeing floating spots of color when the antibiotics were trashing his own brain earlier. Outright mockery seemed a bit uncharitable at the moment, all things considered.

"Why?" Ulquiorra asked, his eyes wide, desperate. "Why call it an eggplant?"

Grimmjow sighed. "Dude, chill. It's just a vegetable." He knew he should have hidden the food encyclopedia. His initial fear had been Ulquiorra being inspired to new depths of culinary depravity, but this was just as valid a reason to hide the damn thing.

He'd almost managed to fall asleep again when Ulquiorra heaved a disgusted sigh of his own. "It's purple _and_ white," he complained.

"So what?" Grimmjow asked impatiently.

"It's an abomination," Ulquiorra muttered under his breath.

Grimmjow ground his teeth. "_You're_ an abomination. Go to sleep."

* * *

Notes: Well, now I'm officially behind on all the real world things I'm supposed to be working on instead of this. It'll be hell catching up, so there'll probably be a wait.

More Notes: Yeah, Tousen's got no room to complain about Aizen treating his Espada like children. And it seems Ulquiorra's pretty pathetic when he's got a high fever. Who'd have guessed?


End file.
